


Pure

by katnissdoesnotfollowback (lost_on_cloud_9)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Buckle up, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Assault, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, It's gonna be a bumpy ride, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 117,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_on_cloud_9/pseuds/katnissdoesnotfollowback
Summary: I’m a survivor. At least that’s what someone once told me. He was probably right, which explains a lot about me. Survivors are selfish and despicable, although I think he meant it as a compliment. Problem is, what I’m surviving for is sometimes hard to tell anymore.





	1. Chapter 1

************************

 

It’s always snowing when I fuck up. 

 

I already disliked winter before the string of fuck-ups began. Everything frozen and dead in the world, but business is almost always better during the winter for some reason. Maybe it’s the need for companionship in the cold and the dark. Or I guess a lot of guys in my town get their jollies off on having sex while freezing their balls off. My ass would beg to differ on the merits of this idea. So would my smarting skin.

 

“Take it, cunt. Fuck, you’re a tight bitch.”

 

Don’t mind that asshole. He’s just my next meal ticket. I grip the target in front of me and keep my head down so the security cameras won’t catch my face. He doesn’t seem to care, though, standing upright, fingers digging into my ass as he drills into me. I check my watch and wince a little as he slaps my cheek, the noise echoing in the otherwise silent shooting range. I really hope he finishes soon. I should charge him extra since I had to basically give him half a hand job just to get him erect. But charging extra after the transaction has begun is always a dicey situation.

 

“Oh fuck, I’m close. You close, too?”

 

I roll my eyes, as if any of my clients could ever get me close. But they always seem to think they can. They are paying for a service, though, and most of them want to think they’re good enough at fucking to make even a whore come. So I arch my back and moan a little.

 

“That’s it, you fucking slut. Take my cock. Take it!” he shouts the last as he slams into me, nearly pushing me and the target over with the force of it. I grab onto the metal struts, disgruntled as he whines pathetically. When he finally pulls out of me, I stand, careful to keep my back to the cameras, and yank my skirt down, straighten my coat and turn to him expectantly.

 

“What’s the matter, Princess? Can’t handle round two?”

 

“You gonna pay for my time to wait around for it?” I ask and he scoffs at me. “Didn’t think so.”

 

As he hauls his pants back into place, his softening penis still sheathed in the condom, I hold my hand out for my paycheck. One handed, he pulls out a stack of cash from his back pocket and smacks it into my palm.

 

“Next time ya want me for free, right?” he asks arrogantly and I snort.

 

“I don’t do anyone for free,” I tell him and walk away while he’s still trying to deal with the condom and his pants. Hurrying around the police station, I pause only long enough to dig out my wipes and clean between my legs, discarding them in a trash can along the edge of the park.

 

The town is silent, only certain people venture out this late. I could probably get a few more customers tonight. Last week I had a lonely widower, figured he’d be gentle for a change, and it was nice to actually work in the warmth of a home. He might’ve usually been gentle, but I can’t know for sure. Guess it’d been awhile for him. He came after four thrusts. At least he paid good. I actually managed to cover the electric bill in full for the month. Maybe he wants another go. I wander back towards his section of town instead of home.

 

The lights are on in his house and he’s sitting on the couch, reading a book. I knock and watch through the window as he looks up, confused and probably not expecting visitors tonight. I twirl my hair around my finger and paste my sweetest smile on my face.

 

“Hey there,” I purr when he opens the door. “Miss me?”

 

“Come inside,” he motions, eyes darting up and down the street. As soon as I’m in, he yanks the curtains closed. His hands tear at his belt, and I drop to my knees.

 

“This is fifty,” I tell him as I pull a condom out of my bag and rip it open. He nods frantically and shoves his pants and underwear down to the floor. He pumps himself until he’s hard, holds himself still as I roll the condom over his length, and moans loudly when I cover him with my mouth.

 

“Fuck I haven’t gotten head in years,” he whines, hips thrusting slightly, and I can tell he’s not gonna last long with this either. I suck harder, hoping to speed things up a little more. Humming does the trick and he curses again while I stroke him to make sure he’s completely satisfied.

 

Men are such strange creatures. So easily able to take pleasure and yet not able to savor it. Even when they try to take it slow, they end up in a jack-rabbit race to the end. Take this one, for example. His face twists like he’s in agony when he comes, and after, he looks almost as like he’s pouting. As though he wants so badly to prolong it but just can’t. 

 

I head into his kitchen and pour myself a glass of water while he straightens himself a little. His place is nice, not like mine. I wonder if he’s got enough money to afford me for a whole night. It’d be good for the stack of bills awaiting me, but I still don’t know anything about him, and the words of Ripper, my mentor in this area, ring in my head.

 

“Hey, uh, here’s the fifty,” he says as he walks in, his wallet opened and a few crisp bills in his hand. “And um, how much for you to stay a little longer?”

 

“How much longer?” I ask.

 

“I wanna fuck you from behind,” he expels a heavy breath and I give him my most winning smile.

 

“Well that’ll be another two hundred, but I’ll give you a twenty dollar discount if you let me use your shower first. Alone,” I emphasize the last word, but he nods eagerly.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he says, counting out an additional hundred and eighty and handing it to me.

 

“Thanks,” I say and shimmy my way towards the direction he points out as where the bathroom is located.

 

I take full advantage of the clear, steamy water and luscious soap in his shower, even if it means I smell like him after. But my luxury is short lived since I’ve barely got the condom on him and smeared some lube on myself before her bends me over the arm of his couch and slides into me with a feral yell. He yanks my hair and his hand rubs a spot too far to the left of my clit to do any good. He comes almost as quick as last time, but at least he doesn’t yell obscenities at me.

 

Gathering my money, I leave while he’s in the shower. It’s been a good night, and as I walk home, my pockets heavy with my earnings, I veer off course and eye several of the window displays in town. 

 

There’s the usual displays of meat cuts and shoes, toys that I’ve no need for, and also the icy lavender bra and panty set I’ve been eyeing, thinking maybe I could up my price if I started wearing fancy lingerie. The shop is long since closed, though, so I continue walking, past the pet store with its menagerie of colorful birds all sleeping for the night, and halting in front of the bakery. The scent of yeast and sugar hangs heavy in the air. In a few hours, the lights will flicker on in the back room, spilling under the cracks of the door that separates kitchens from display areas. But what catches my eye are the intricately frosted cakes on display. Waves of honeyd yellow and spun sugar blossoms. Fondant birds in half flight.

 

They’re so beautiful and pure. They make me sick. I spin on my heel and march home, away from the memories.

 

Everything is exactly how I left it. My mother slumped on the couch, a needle in her limp hand and the TV screeching soap opera reruns. I crank down the volume so we don’t get a complaint from the neighbors and head into the bathroom. First things first, I add the money to the stash in my right boot. Everywhere else I’ve hidden it, my mother manages to find it and blow it on her drug habit. I’m not sure how she’s paying for it anymore and I really don’t care to know.

 

I shower again, scrubbing men from my skin and trying not to think about how nice the widower’s shower is. I should pay him another visit next week. He had a stack of money and was obviously happy to see me again. I can deal with knocking twenty off for him in exchange for a really nice shower once in awhile. Maybe I’ll even start carrying travel bottles of my soap and shampoo in my bag just for when I visit him.

 

When I’m clean and in my sweats for bed, I check once more on my mother. No change. I turn off the TV and the lights, not wanting to waste the electricity. Sometimes I hate her. Most of the time I hate her. I should’ve run when I was sixteen and never looked back. Then I wouldn’t be living this amazingly wonderful life of mine.

 

I climb into bed and am asleep within moments. It doesn’t last. The icy roadways and towering trees, flashing lights and bitter cold visit me, the way they always do at night. When I wake, I’m in a cold sweat. I grumble and head to the bathroom, cleaning myself with a washcloth since I can’t afford another full shower. Not here where I have to pay for the water. Dressing in my jeans, boots -- yes the ones with my money in them -- and a warm sweater, I head out the door without a second glance at my mother and walk to school. I need to finish my homework anyways.

 

I’m not alone in the early arrivals congregating in the cafeteria. I rarely am. Too many kids in this town work late into the night and return home to parents who are drunk or drugged or fucking away their problems. Not that I can judge there, but shouldn’t a parent be more responsible?

 

Of course, we aren’t the only kids here early. As I pass by the gymnasium, there’s the squeal of sneakers on the polished wood floor and shouts interspersed with loud whistles. I walk past with my head high, ignoring the inevitable cat call that comes through the open door. They all know what I do, even though I refuse to fuck a student. Yeah, I know that I’m one too, but students don’t have money unless their Mommy and Daddy are rich, and those kids spit cruelty and drink entitlement for breakfast. The last thing I need is a fat lip from the starting quarterback because he decides I wasn’t worth the money.

 

“Work it, baby. You free tonight?”

 

I resist the urge to flip him off and keep walking, ignoring the epithet that follows me. They think they're creative. Or maybe that I’m easy. Pathetic.

 

In the cafeteria, I drop my bag on a table and slide into my solitary seat before pulling out my books. Scratching away with my pencil and ignoring the handful of speculative looks sent my way. I am old news in this town and yet they still stare. The painfully true rumor spread like wildfire, stunning given the fact that the incident happened on a day when school was cancelled due to snow. By the time I walked into the classroom again, they all knew.

 

_ Katniss went to see Cray. _

 

That was all it took for everyone to know how low we’d sunk. Never mind the fact that my mother had long since lost her job or that my father and my sister were fucking dead. Never mind the fact that until I went to Cray, the bills kept piling higher and we hadn’t eaten in days. My after school job at the local deli just wasn’t cutting it, even when I begged Rooba for more hours. She’d shaken her head and apologized. There just weren’t any extra hours to be had. We’d already been evicted from our house and moved into a shitty trailer.

 

I could’ve dropped out of school and worked full time in the mines or picked up a second and a third job, but my father’s insistence that I finish high school and not become another statistic haunted me from his grave. Of course, he’d probably be beyond thrilled to learn that his daughter ended up as a prostitute, but that’s beside the point.

 

The mere memory of my night with Cray makes me shudder. Since I’d gotten to his door early, just in case he had any others come knocking, I had to wait in the shadows. It was bitterly cold that night, the world smothered in snow, and when the lights finally flipped on in his house, I shouted with relief and knocked before I could second guess myself. He’d answered almost immediately and leered at me.

 

“I wondered when you’d be knocking,” he’d growled before inviting me in.

 

It’s not unusual in District Twelve, although it is technically illegal. Most people look the other way. No one wants to face the ugly truths of our city, but all the girls know that if the money from the mines runs out or their daddies get injured enough that they can’t work anymore, their next stop is to Cray. He might be the chief of police, but he has a thirst for girls. Preferably ones who are pure. As long as you go to him first, to “launch your career,” so to speak, and return to his door every now and then, and don’t do anything stupid like fuck the cops on his desk, he looks the other way. I was probably pushing it letting that one cop nail me on their practice range.

 

That first night though, Cray overlooked my hollow cheeks and rumbling belly. Even went so far as to grunt what I guess he thought were words of wisdom and guidance as he held me down and pounded into me. He ignored the tears leaking from my eyes, or maybe he didn’t even notice. And when he was done, after he’d handed me my money and watched as I put my dress back on, he gave me one last piece of advice.

 

“Keep those boots on, girl. Makes it easier to run if the wife or the boss comes home early. Catch my drift?”

 

After that, I went home and showered twice and cried myself to sleep, curled up underneath my Garfield and Friends comforter I’d had since I was nine. The thing is threadbare and barely holds in any heat anymore, but it was a gift from my father, just like the boots I had worn that night. The ones I’m still wearing today. The ones Cray suggested I wear while I was working. 

 

They’re the only shoes I can remember owning.

 

Unfortunately, that was probably the best piece of advice Cray gave to me.

 

When the school bell finally rings, I gather my things and ignore the blatant brushes of hands on my ass or the childish sniggers behind me as I walk, pretending that every last one of them is beneath me. Especially the girls who look down their noses at me. It’s just another day at D12 High. But here’s the thing...they’re no different than me, only they don’t get paid when a boy takes them to the slag heap. What do they get out of it? A clumsy grope and a fumbling fuck? Either way, in the morning, the boy still looks at us both like we’re things to be played with and cast aside when they’re done with us. Something to be ashamed of and yet somehow bragged about amongst themselves. Another notch in the belt.

 

Reaching the relative safety of first period language arts, I sit heavily in my chair and concentrate on being invisible. The others file in around me, talking about the upcoming Winter Ball. I try not to roll my eyes and fail, nearly giving myself a headache in the process.

 

“Hey, Kat,” one of them elbows me lightly and I turn to face the hesitant male voice. He must take my frosty stare for an invitation to continue. That or he’s stupid. “So, uh, you wanna be my date to the Winter Ball?”

 

I blink at the vaguely familiar pale green eyes and freckle dotted nose and try to place how I know this kid. Oh right. Swivel hips who really likes to squeeze tits. I fucked his dad in a Buick last month. Got paid with a brand new leather jacket from his store that I hawked for close to five hundred bucks. Wouldn’t that make for an especially touching moment? It’s almost worth it to say ‘ _ yes’ _ just to see how his daddy responds when the whore he fucked in his car shows up on his son’s arm for pictures before the ball. Although I seriously doubt this boy would introduce me to his parents.

 

“Sorry, sweetie,” I say coldly. “I’ve got plans for that night.”

 

“Oh. Like what?” His cheeks are turning red at my rejection and one of his friends behind him is coughing into his hand.

 

“Washing my hair,” I tell him.  _ Or screwing your dad for another prime leather jacket. Can’t decide which.  _ I feel sorry for the kid’s mother.

 

“Good morning, class,” I relax marginally as Mr. Lemmings enters, basically saving me from an awkward situation. I’ll have to book it out of class to avoid the backlash of the bruised male ego. When I manage a quick look at Freckles, though, he doesn’t seem too choked up about it. He probably only asked because he figured I’d be an easy fuck on the big night.

 

I wonder what it’d be like to fuck in one of those poofy dresses the girls all wear to the balls. Probably a logistical nightmare.

 

“Miss Everdeen,” Mr. Lemmings calls out as the bell rings to dismiss class at the end of the hour. “About your term paper…”

 

I walk up to the front as the others file out, but Mr. Lemmings waves me back towards his office while he answers a few quick questions from other students. When the classroom is empty, he shuts the door and then walks sedately into his office, shutting that door behind us. I discard my bag on the floor as he sits in the chair and undoes his pants. I know the drill by now. We don’t even need to talk. He’s already hard as I kneel between his outstretched legs. Must’ve been a rough class today. 

 

A condom. A quick shift in positions, and his head falls back in relief. He never looks at me while I do this.

 

“Fuck. Suck my cock, Calla. Suck it hard.”

 

Because in his head, it’s never me sucking him off, always one of The Angels. The girls who signed abstinence vows at the beginning of the school year and dress in virginal white, soft creamy pinks, gold crosses nestled in their barely visible cleavage. Today, apparently, it’s the ring leader, Calla. She sits two rows back from me in his class. Whatever, I’m the one who gets paid.

 

“Mr. Lemmings?” the question accompanies a knock on the classroom door. Lemmings swears and rolls his chair, pushing me under the desk, on my knees with his penis still in my mouth.

 

“In my office,” he responds and I hear papers shuffling above me. The door opens, and I am grateful the desk has a front partition shielding me from view. Lemmings’ stomach is flush with the desk, keeping me completely under its cover. “How can I help you, Peeta? Shouldn’t you be headed to class?”

 

The last question comes out strained as my teeth scrape over his skin in my attempt to not gag on his dick.

 

“I know, I was just wondering if you’d had a chance yet to look at my application essay?”

 

“Ah, not yet,” he says, his voice further strained as I hollow my cheeks and suck like he’s a fucking straw. I can’t believe he did this. Shoved me under the desk like the naughty secret I am so he could have a normal, friendly conversation with Peeta Mellark, as though he’s not getting blown by a student. “I will in a moment. Free period.”

 

“Okay, thank you, sir,” Peeta calls, his voice retreating as he leaves the office, the warning bell ringing in his wake and the doors left open.

 

“Fuck,” Lemmings mutters as I bob my head as much as I can in the constricted space. He twitches in my mouth, and I realize he liked the teeth scrape. I do it again and paper crumples loudly on top of the desk. In seconds, he’s spurting into the condom and wheezing. When he’s done, he shoves his chair back and stands, leaning over his desk to slam the office door shut. He peels off the condom and wraps it in a tissue before discarding it into the trash can. “I should pay you less for that.”

 

“You should pay me more,” I retort. “Since you forgot to lock the doors. I’m also going to need an excuse slip for my next class.”

 

He yanks some cash from his wallet and shoves it in my jeans pocket while I smirk at him. Then I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. He scribbles out the note and hands it to me. Just before I leave, though, he grabs my wrist and whirls me back around to face him again.

 

“Do that again next time,” he says in a low voice, “and I’ll report you to Principal Abernathy.”

 

“Oh honey,” I coo with a courage I don’t feel. “You forget that if you do that, you’re reporting on yourself, too. Besides, you liked it.”

 

He lets me go and doesn’t deny my claim. They can’t lie to me about when they like it. I can tell. And Mr. Lemmings liked getting head under his desk with lots of teeth involved while the golden boy of the school spoke to him about college applications.

 

I feel filthy.

 

After a stop in the girls’ room to brush the taste of latex from my mouth, I head into my next class and hand my note to Mr. Latier, my science teacher. I like him. He’s never leered at me or given any hint that he knows what I do to pay the bills.

 

“Mr. Lemmings keeping you late again? Perhaps you should consider an English tutor, Katniss. I’ve no complaints about your work in my class, but if your grades are suffering in other areas it could jeopardize your graduation,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose.

 

“I’ll think about it,” I mumble and take my seat. My neighbor shifts and I look over at him.

 

_ Shit _ .

 

I sit next to Peeta Mellark in this class, and there is no way he didn’t hear my exchange with Mr. Latier. We sit in the front row and the entire class is already engrossed with a worksheet. I toss my bag on the ground and focus on my work, but it feels like he’s still watching me. Every time I glance over, though, his eyes are fixated on his desk or on a point near my feet.

 

As the class winds down, I realize that it’s not my feet that have snared his interest, it’s my bag. Olive green and frayed along the straps with a stupid stuffed cat keychain my sister got me for my last birthday before she died. The bag I left propped against the office wall, completely visible while I fellatioed Mr. Lemmings under his desk. My cheeks burn and I feel sick to my stomach.

 

When the bell rings, I scramble to get out of there, but my pencil files off my desk in my haste and skids across the tile, right under Peeta’s feet. He bends over to retrieve it and holds it up for me.

 

“Here,” he says. It may be the first word he’s ever uttered to me.

 

“Thanks,” I say and snatch it out of his hand, bolting from the room and as far down the hallway as I can get.

 

************************

 

My week doesn’t improve much. A rowdy single guy who makes a face when I tell him the charge for anal and he thankfully settles for vaginal from behind, but who keeps his hand wrapped around my neck the whole time and squeals like a rutting pig. I make another trip to Cray because it’s been a few months. Manage to pick up a guy in his late forties who’s passing through on business and actually get to fuck him in a real bed in his hotel room. That one pays extra for me to bite his nipples until he bleeds and call him “Edward.” But who am I to kink shame?

 

Okay, that one was fucking weird.

 

Even then, I’m still short on rent and am actually considering the implicit offer from Coach Atalanta in P.E. class when I catch her looking up my shorts. I’ve never done a woman before, so I chicken out at the last second and wind up behind the deli with Rooba’s grown son. He’s rough, though, and I can’t work the next day, which isn’t helping my situation.

 

On Thursday night, it starts snowing again. That should’ve been my hint that everything was about to go sour.

 

When I get home from school, my mother is up and tearing through the kitchen, muttering to herself. Her hair’s a wreck and her eyes sunken and glassy.

 

“Mom?” I ask and have to shout it again before she hears me. “What are you doing?”

 

“Cash, I need cash,” she insists and yanks my bookbag off my shoulder before rifling through it. “Do you have any?”

 

I push her away and stalk to my room to work on some homework before I have to get dressed for work. Glass shatters and my mom screeches in agony or terror. I sigh and head back out to the kitchen. She’s standing on a chair, the cabinets open and shards of glass scattered over the kitchen floor as she pulls at her hair.

 

“I need money, Katniss,” she pleads. “The crows, they won’t go away.”

 

I have no idea what she’s talking about and at this moment, I hate her more than anything, but I return to my room and retrieve some cash from my boot, shoving the damp hundred dollar bills into her hand. Now I’m really short on rent. But if I don’t give her the money, she’ll tear the place apart looking and possibly do something dumb enough to land herself in jail -- like stealing. Maybe my landlord is lonely and willing to trade for what I’m missing on the rent.

 

As she scrambles off the chair and out the door without a coat on, I clench my fists. Once the glass is cleaned up, I’m a little behind and hurry through my routine. Shave. Eyeliner. Mascara. Dress. Boots. I zip up my coat and head into the cold January night.

 

I should visit them. In the cemetery. Maybe that’s why my mother went bezerk tonight. It’s been two years to the day since they died. But I haven’t been since they were buried. I don’t even have flowers to put on their graves. And they’d be disgusted with what I’ve become anyways. A shadow of a girl who fucks for money and hates her mother.

 

Sniffling against the cold, I chastise myself for nearly ruining my mascara. The eggs ran out three days ago, the milk two days ago. We haven’t had real meat in over a week, and the rent is due tomorrow. But instead of heading towards my usual grounds out near The Hob Fairgrounds, I walk towards the woods, towards the edge of the city. I should be looking for business. Hell, I should be knocking on doors and advertising.

 

Snow drifts in hazy clouds beneath the beams of the streetlights, sparkles on the ground. My boots aren’t waterproof, and it isn’t long before my socks begin to dampen. I keep walking. 

In her more lucid states, my mother would scream at me that I was impetuous, stubborn. That’s better than most things that are usually screamed at me, and she’d be right. But it doesn’t alter my course. There’s still a part of me that longs for her to snap out of her drug induced stupor. To see me as I have become. When I first started this gig, I’d console myself at night, imagining her sobbing and pleading for me to come back. Folding me in her arms and soothing it all away. Actually being a mother. Forgetting that I’m the daughter who should’ve died.

 

But those are pipe dreams that never amount to anything more than a sinking disappointment when I wake to an empty trailer or my mother slumped on the couch with the light still on and a cigarette burning in the ashtray and the residue of heroine on the table. No sister and no father.

 

When I finally reach my lake, I brush snow off one of the fallen logs and sit, hands shoved in my coat pockets, mind blank. Sometimes that’s the best way to deal with it. Blank keeps out the memories of two coffins, one large and one small, being lowered into the ground. Or the crushing guilt that follows the knowledge that one of those coffins at least, should have been mine.

 

A snap of twigs startles me, and I whip my head around to find the intruder. I keep my face blank of emotion as he halts, his own hands shoved deep into the warm wells of pockets in his letterman’s jacket, a red plaid blanket tucked under one arm. His red rimmed eyes widen at the sight of me. Has he been crying? I stand, intending to silently walk past him back towards town. He’s disturbed the sanctuary of my lake. The only place left my mother hasn’t soiled with her drugs or me with my job. 

 

“Hey,” he says before I can take two steps. I stare at him and he shuffles his feet nervously. Good. I want him to feel nervous. “You, um, don’t have to go. I won’t bother you.”

 

This makes me scowl at him, more so than the expensive shoes keeping his feet warm. Like so many times before, he drops his gaze from mine. The slight tilt of his head reveals a red welt on his cheek. I inhale sharply and this brings his blue eyes back to mine. I know where he got that mark, and he must see the truth of it in my eyes because sudden anger burns in his.

 

“I wasn’t staying anyways,” I snap and my shoulder brushes his as I pass.

 

“Wait,” Peeta calls out, spinning to follow me, but he keeps his hands tucked in his pockets. “You aren’t, um I mean, you aren’t working tonight, are you?”

 

Bile churns in my throat at his question. Because of all the boys in our school who’ve taunted and grabbed and made lewd remarks at me, Peeta Mellark was never one of them, and he is the last one I expected to come crawling to me. He stares and I stare back, but neither of us budges. 

 

Besides, he’s popular and loved, always surrounded by large groups of jocks and cheerleaders, tugging their skirts up just high enough for their bloomers to peek out, and while many a girl has tried to get her name connected with his, I’ve never seen him with a girl on his arm. Never heard rumors of him down at the slag heap. Instead, they whisper and giggle that he’s pure. Untouched. Maybe that reputation has become too much for him to bear and the school whore is as good as any place to start.

 

“I don’t service students,” I tell him. His blue eyes round out again and he runs a hand through his hair, all agitation and nerves. A perverse thrill runs through me. Peeta Mellark, captain of the debate team and the wrestling team, legendary provider of pep talks, is tongue-tied in my presence.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” he stumbles all over his words and I step towards him, reckless and hungry.

 

“Then what did you mean?” I whisper, brushing my lips over the red welt on his cheek that his mother gave to him. My fists clench in my pockets, nails cutting into my palms.

 

“Don’t go, Katniss,” he whispers, following me as I pull away, one hand reaching out towards me. Pain, so foreign in his usually sedate blue eyes beckons to me. And pisses me off. Then he retreats as he blinks and anger sets back into his gaze. I cross my arms and wait for the jock-typical accusations of leading him on and owing him.

 

“You shouldn’t have to go,” he says instead, and now I’m the one blinking in the moonlight filtered through clouds, with white flakes swirling around us in a terrible storm.

 

They catch on his eyelashes and melt in his hair, ashy blonde and falling in disarray over his forehead. He’d probably want to face me while he fucks me and have me run my fingers through it. He probably doesn’t even know how to fuck.

 

“Fine. I’ll stay.” I whirl away from him. I’ve never fucked anyone my own age, and I have no idea how to handle this. Or how to face him in school tomorrow. So I decide that I don’t care what he wants, I won’t look at him as he fucks me.

 

“Have you, um--”

 

“What?” 

 

“There’s a cabin through those trees,” he nods towards a nearby copse, and I shake my head. The whole thing sounds like a perfect setup to something awful Ripper warned me never to walk into. Her advice has kept me alive and relatively unscratched this long, but as Peeta takes in my confused expression and laughs, I’m not sure why I shouldn’t go with him.

 

“Come on, Katniss,” he says. “I just want someone to talk to, alright?”

 

“Just talk?” I ask skeptically.

 

“Yeah,” he says and moves to stand next to me. “I’ve had a shitty night and it looks like maybe you have too, and I don’t know about you, but I could use a friend right now.”

 

“You have plenty of friends.”

 

“I have people I know,” he corrects, and there is something so sad in this single sentence. All those adoring fans and fawning followers aren’t really his friends at all. “They don’t understand…”

 

He lifts a hand, vaguely waving it over the red welt on his face and inconvenient compassion makes my breath sharpen. And I cave.

 

I trudge after him through the trees. It’s only a short distance to the abandoned cottage he mentioned. His eyes light as we step over the threshold and he smiles. It’s so boyish and innocent that I want to wipe it off his face, but I don’t. Not just yet. I stand aside and watch, rapt, as he sweeps debris and detritus out of the fireplace, carefully arranging the pile of wood left next to the hearth.

 

“Do you have a lighter? I forgot to grab one before I left.” He stuffs pine straw between the logs, and I toss mine to him. “Thanks.”

 

Within minutes, he’s got a cheery fire going. It’s cozy and almost romantic, but completely contrary to what I’m used to. I sit in front of the fire and tug at my skirt. Peeta hands me the blanket he had tucked under his arm, a soft smile on his face. I don’t want his pity, but I snatch the blanket and wrap myself into it as he settles next to me.

 

“So what did you want to talk about?” I break the quiet as the fire grows in the hearth.

 

“Anything really,” he says, picking at his shoe laces. When he looks up at me, though, his eyes dance in the light. “I mean, we’ve gone to the same school since we were five but I hardly know anything about you.”

 

“You know plenty,” I say, thinking of that day earlier in the week when he almost caught me with Mr. Lemmings. Peeta didn’t breathe a word about it, though. For certain, the sordid rumor of Katniss blowing a teacher between classes would have definitely made its rounds through the school if Peeta had told anyone. But it hasn’t.

 

“I don’t know the deep stuff.” I roll my eyes at this and Peeta smiles, so shy and sweet that unexpected warmth that has nothing to do with the fire spreads through me.

 

“What’s the deep stuff?” I ask despite my better judgement.

 

“Like...what’s your favorite color?”

 

“Oh I’m sorry,” I can’t help but snark. “You’ve crossed the line now.”

 

His smile widens as he ducks his head, an adorable blush spreading over his cheeks.

 

“It’s green,” I whisper, tucking the blanket closer to my knees. “What’s yours?”

 

“Orange,” he answers and expands when I look doubtful. “A muted orange. Like a sunset.”

 

My head is immediately filled with the gorgeous spread of the sky with streamers of vibrant colors streaking together, unable to tell where one begins and the other ends, only aware of the presence of each as you step back, tilt your head to the warmth of the sun dipping below the sky. The flare of the soft orange he described. My heart aches with the beauty of the the image and I have to look away from Peeta’s eager blue eyes, almost the deep indigo that follows the sunset in that flash of time before dark.

 

“So now what?” I ask when we fall silent for awhile. He wanted to talk, and his gaze on me is stirring something in my belly that I don’t care for. I’m hoping that words will distract me.

 

“Um, how do you take your tea? Or do you prefer coffee?”

 

“I don’t really know. I had this peppermint tea one time around Christmas. I really liked that.” I don’t know why I’m telling him these things, but I keep answering his questions as the night wears on. Learning about him too as we go.

 

“Tell me something you’d never admit to anyone at school,” he says as I try to stop laughing at his rendition of how he wound up on the wrestling team after losing a dare to one of his brothers.

 

“I hate cats.”

 

“So I should never call you ‘Kat,’” Peeta says with an earnest look and a lift of one eyebrow. “Didn't you used to have a pet cat?”

 

“Buttercup,” I tell him. “Actually that was Prim’s cat, but I’m the one he followed home. You know what, I think Buttercup’s the only cat I really hate. Garfield, on the other hand, he and I connect on a spiritual level.”

 

“How so?”

 

“We’re cranky and have an obsession with food.” Peeta laughs at this and now I’m the one blushing. “I actually have a Garfield comforter on my bed. But you can’t tell anyone that!”

 

“I swear, I wouldn’t dare,” he says with hands raised in surrender. “I think that might be my favorite new thing about you.”

 

It feels so luxurious, laughing and just talking to Peeta. Every now and then, he’ll get up to stoke the fire or add a log. I notice a bucket filled with water set next to the hearth and it occurs to me that Peeta might come out here fairly regularly. Maybe this place is his solace from the world.

 

I wish I could hate him. Wish I could claim he’s just another rich kid with a shining future, but even I know that the gleaming gold of his life hides something tarnished. That red welt on his cheek is a screaming reminder that Peeta’s life isn’t perfect.

 

Right after my father and sister died, my mother fell into despair. Losing her husband and her youngest daughter broke her in a way that I didn’t know before then that people could be broken. She turned first to alcohol. Then to prescription meds and cigarettes she brought home illegally from the pharmacy to numb the pain. It cost her her job and that led to heroine on the streets. At least the pharmacist didn’t press charges.

 

But the rent went over due and the pantry thinned out. I did the best I could with my hourly wages from Rooba’s deli, but it was never enough. We were reaching a pinnacle and about to plummet either into a second eviction and homelessness or government intervention on my behalf. I felt so alone and scared, abandoned by the mother who was supposed to take care of me but couldn’t get past her own grief enough to see that I was hurting too.

 

I wasn’t completely alone, I think as I steal a glance at Peeta, barely hearing his story about his brothers. There’s a sad wistful edge to whatever he’s saying and I wonder if their mother hit his brothers too. Or if it’s just Peeta who bears her wrath.

 

After my father and sister died, no one helped us. I pawned whatever I could to help make ends meet. It was a cold day in March. We’d had a few days of warm weather, promising the arrival of spring. Yellow dandelions had begun to crop up around the district. But a cold front had swept through and dropped a frigid rain on the city, reversing the thaw. I had gone to the pawn store to sell several of Prim’s trinkets, but the store owner wouldn’t buy. He’d said they were worthless.

 

As I stumbled home through the rain, nauseous and dizzy with hunger, I collapsed behind a row of shops. I was considering dumpster diving, but before I could even get the lid off, someone started screeching. At first, I thought they were yelling at me, and ducked behind the dumpster. While I hid in the shadows, the back door to the bakery flew open, emitting a steaming cloud of light and heat. The scent of fresh bread rolled over me and my mouth watered.

 

Peeta’s mother shoved him out the back door, a couple of half-scorched loaves of bread in his hands. As he turned back to face her, she’d struck him across the face, sending him reeling. He stumbled off the back porch and nearly fell in the mud as the rain soaked his clothes through in an instant.

 

“Stupid, worthless boy! Throw it away. No one’s buying burned bread!”

 

She didn’t bother making sure he did as he was told, but retreated back into the dry warmth of the bakery. His feet squelched in the mud as he walked towards me. The rain plastering his hair to his forehead. A red mark, not unlike the one he has tonight, spread angry and fresh over his jaw.  At the time, it only vaguely occurred to me that she’d hit him, I was so dizzy with hunger and grief. It wasn’t until I started paying attention to the marks that Peeta Mellark wore to school that I was able to piece it together. As much as I despise my mother, at least she’s never once hit me. 

 

He stopped in front of the dumpster and I tucked my legs in closer, but it was no use. He’d already seen me squatting there in the rain like a piece of garbage. We stared at one another, rain sluicing over his cheeks in cool rivulets. He opened his mouth to say something, but a noise from the bakery startled him. He dropped the two loaves by my feet and hurried back into the building, slamming the door shut behind him.

 

I wish I could say those two loaves of bread changed everything. And I guess, in a way, they did. The loneliness didn’t feel quite as crushing after that. Not with Peeta’s blue eyes frequently seeking me out at school. A quick inspection that I always thought was meant to make sure I wasn’t starving again rather than to ogle my body. His gaze never felt malicious but reminded me that there were still ways to help. Ways to survive.

 

The bread, a hearty raisin nut concoction, filled me and my mother that night, but the cold morning light brought reality crashing back in. The bread was only a temporary reprieve. Eventually, we found ourselves back in the same place, and I found myself waiting in the snow for Cray.

 

“Hey. Where’d you go?” Peeta asks softly, cutting through my memories and bringing me back to the cabin. “Wherever it was looked sad.”

 

“Memories,” I say with a shrug and he nods. His hand curls over mine on the floor and I let him hold my hand. Gentle swipes of his thumb over my skin send tremors of delight and comfort up through my arm. For once, it’s nice to have someone’s hands on me -- in real friendship and not because of what they can get out of me.

 

The thought startles me. Is Peeta Mellark my friend now? I don’t really know what to do with a friend anymore. I haven’t had one since I went to Cray, when I was sixteen years old. After that, being my friend in school was social poison. Which explains why Peeta and I never spoke until a few days ago. Not even about the bread he gave me.

 

“Has anyone asked you to the Winter Ball?” he mumbles the question. Betrayal strikes swift in my heart. I should have known we’d work our way back here.

 

“No one worth mentioning,” I say, wary of the direction we’re taking with this conversation.

 

“I don’t really want to go,” he says this like it’s some terrible confession. “I’m not very good at dancing.”

 

I laugh at this and Peeta’s cheeks turn pink. His hand leaves mine and I reach out to clasp it once more. I’m just so relieved that he’s not asking what I thought he was.

 

“You’re laughing at me,” he accuses.

 

“No,” I insist, twining our fingers together although it takes some doing. Peeta’s not buying my words. “I’m laughing because I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

 

“Oh. What were you expecting me to say?” He relaxes and the warmth between us that is rapidly growing familiar and comfortable returns.

 

“It’s not important. Do you want to learn how to dance?”

 

“Could you teach me that?” He makes me think of an eager puppy, ready to learn and be rewarded with a treat.

 

“Sure,” I tell him and stand, setting the blanket aside while he prods the fire again. The cabin’s insulation isn’t worth shit, and although the fire creates a small pocket of warmth, neither one of us has shed our coats yet.

 

I position his arms on me and step into his embrace. Murmur quiet instructions and tell him to follow my lead first until he’s got the steps down. He’s clumsy and off tempo, stepping on my toes and apologizing profusely. I don’t tell him that my toes are so numb from the cold that I barely feel it. Nor do I tell him that this awkward dance is a thousand times more enjoyable than what I ought to be doing right now.

 

“Okay, I think you’ve got the steps,” I finally tell him. “Now you lead.”

 

“Okay.”

 

We begin and he shuffles and misses a few steps, his hand gripping mine as he corrects. I start humming to keep time in my head now that he’s leading, and oddly enough, Peeta’s steps become more smooth. I keep humming and Peeta’s smile returns, brighter than ever as he starts to get the hang of it.

 

“Where’d you learn to do this?”

 

“My parents,” I tell him and my step is the one that falters this time.

 

“I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through that, Katniss,” he murmurs. 

 

Tears prick my eyes and I swallow. I try not to lean into him, but he’s so warm and welcoming with his broad shoulders and wide chest, bulked up from years of working in his family’s bakery and wrestling. I hide my face in his chest, the rough wool of his coat scratching my cheek, but at least he won’t see me cry. We keep dancing, and he leans down, wrapping me in a blanket of comfort. His lips just touch my neck and a burst of heat flowers across my skin from that point. And it feels so good, so impossibly good. I can’t remember the last time someone just held me and offered comfort or compassion. I think it was probably my father.

 

“You’re so strong, and I’m not sure you even realize it,” he murmurs. “You’re a survivor. A fighter.”

 

I crack in his arms as a flood of regrets fills me to the brim. And I can’t let him do this. I can’t let him do this to me, reveal my weaknesses and remind me of them. So when he finally lifts his head and looks down at me, his shimmering eyes deep with something terrifying, I don’t move. I should run, but I am frozen in place as his hand releases mine to cup my cheek. We’ve stopped dancing and all I know for certain is that I need to gain control of whatever this is before I end up exposed to him, or worse, owing him more than I already do for those two loaves of bread.

 

So as I lift on my toes and kiss his jaw in the spot where his mother once left a mark on his skin, I tell myself that I am settling a debt. Evening a score. My hands squeeze between us and pry open the snaps on his coat. I watch what I’m doing and not his face, but I can hear his breathing pick up as I back him into a wall and run my hands up over the cotton of the shirt he’s wearing. Then under the fabric up over his chest.

 

“Katniss,” he murmurs softly, his hands toying with my loose hair behind my back. I push down on his forearms to move his touch lower. When his palms skim over my bare thighs, he gets the idea and clenches his hands on my skin.

 

“I’ve seen you staring at me,” I purr. He tears his eyes to the side, but I can see the effort it takes him to swallow in the way he licks his lips and his adam’s apple visibly bobs. He can’t seem to talk, though. So I guide his hands up under my dress so he can squeeze my ass. He releases a pained moan and his hips thrust slightly towards me. “Are you a virgin, Peeta?”

 

He squeezes his eyes shut and turns his head away from me completely.

 

“You’ll laugh at me again,” he whispers, and I do, but it’s more in wonder that I’m right about him. By whatever miracle, Peeta Mellark is still untouched by the understood dictates of this town that suggest a boy shouldn’t pass his sixteenth birthday without at least one trip to the slag heap.

 

“But you’ve kissed a girl,” I prompt. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, looking almost in pain as he shakes his head in a negative. I tell myself that’s why I do it. Because he is something good and pure and beautiful and I want to smash him. To break him the way I was broken and prove that he’s no better than the rest of us.

 

I cup him over his jeans and he hisses, the sound irrevocably loud in the small space, drowning out the soothing crackle of the fire. His fingers dig into my ass and don’t move from there. Slowly, I massage him, and although he doesn’t look at me, he also doesn’t pull away. His breathing turns harsh as he hardens beneath my palm.

 

Maybe he’s lying about being a virgin.

 

“Unzip your jeans,” I tell him. His hands collide with my belly in his haste to obey, but he groans as I shift my hand to slide inside his open jeans.

 

“Katniss,” he murmurs, and the sound of my name startles me. They usually call me Princess or Honey or Sugar. I squeeze him and it pulls a strangled sound from his throat. His head tips back, thudding on the wall. A pink flush has sprouted on his cheeks, traveling down his neck.

 

I rub with more vigor and his mouth drops open on quiet moans as his hips rock into my touch.

 

“Uh-uh, feels so good,” he stutters around his catching breath. His hands cup gently around my arms, as though he’s afraid I’ll stop, that this will have all been a tease. I should stop. But I don’t.

 

Shifting my stance, I grip his cock and pump, the fabric of his shorts stimulating him as his cheeks redden and he bites his lip, his moan of pure pleasure escaping around his teeth. I watch his face as I finish him, making sure his underwear will be filthy with his cum.

 

His eyes crack open, glazed with wonder as he pants, his lower lip lush and indented with his own bite marks. My middle flutters as he looks at me with that wondrous gaze, and for just a second, I feel as pure as him.

 

Yanking my hand back, I try to remove myself from his grasp, but now that he’s come, he won’t let me go.

 

“Wait,” he pleads again. “Let me...” He trails off at my incredulous burst of laughter.

 

“Let you what?” I ask with derision. “Grope me? Fumble around under my skirt? Fuck me? You sure you want your first fuck to be with a whore in an abandoned cabin by the lake?”

 

“No!” he nearly shouts and then immediately looks contrite. He’s staring at the floor again, jaw clenching as he orders his words before speaking again. “Let me make you feel good, too.”

 

“You wouldn’t know how,” I sneer, and his eyes harden. Determination this time, not anger.

 

“Then show me,” he says. We stare at one another and I am stunned with myself when I am the one who breaks, shrugging and nonchalant to hide the fact that the idea of Peeta Mellark’s hands on me excites me a little.

 

He spins us so that my back is against the wall, his eyes roaming all over my face as he tries to decide where to begin. Finally, he leans towards me, and I reluctantly place a hand over his mouth. His lips are chapped but warm. His startled breath puffs and collects on my palm, sending a shiver down my spine that only reaffirms that this is the right thing to do.

 

“Not yet,” I tell him, referencing one of my firm rules. No kissing on the mouth. They never want to kiss me after anyways so as long as I can dissuade them at the start, I don’t have to worry. I only plan on giving him ten minutes of groping before I end this anyways.

 

He nods in acquiescence as I drop my hand, and I think he’s going to be an asshole as he leans towards me again, but this time, he tilts his head, nuzzling his nose in my neck as he braces his hands on the wall behind me. He inhales and then releases a shaky exhale. His lips skate over my skin as my body heats, melting with this simple, careful caress. I bite my cheek and try to think of something cold or repugnant as his hand lowers to my hip, his arms shaking and uncertain as he plants one...two...three kisses on my neck.

 

“You're so beautiful, Katniss,” he whispers before sucking gently on my earlobe, and I think about making up a no talking rule on the spot as my knees shake. He’s lying for sure this time, but the way his fingers tremble as they skim lower, to the hem of my skirt and then swirl as he lifts it, a tangled vine traced over my thigh, I don’t stop him. His lies are beautiful.

 

He kneads my ass and makes me pliant with his words. Paints them over both sides of my neck and my collar bone. I am aching and stunned, warmed by the firelight and his touches. No one’s ever been this gentle with me, and the very idea that Peeta Mellark could have this effect on me and the dangers of it threatens to shatter the illusions he’s built around us.

 

“Do you wanna grab my tits?” I ask to dispel some of the magic and Peeta freezes.

 

“Yes,” he whispers, but keeps his hands where they are as I unbutton my coat and my dress and unceremoniously pull my breasts from my bra. They’re not that impressive, but Peeta groans in agony as he lowers his head to them and sucks one nipple into his mouth.

 

“Oh!” I cry out as he laves it with his tongue and teeth. It’s probably been ten minutes by now, but Peeta’s mouth is making me wet. I can feel it, the natural lubrication of desire, slicking over my skin and dripping down my thighs. Perhaps it’s the purity of his exploration as his hands join in, caressing my ribs, cupping my breasts so he can feast on them at a more comfortable angle, or the relish he seems to take in trying to make me feel good. I don’t know, I don’t know, all I know is that he has awakened something powerful and terrifying in me all at once. I spear my hands in his hair and writhe against the wall as he moans deep in his throat.

 

“God, you taste and smell like a dream. Can I...can I touch you now?” he asks timidly, and I nod to keep from squealing or screaming that he has to touch me  _ this instant _ .

 

He rests his forehead on mine as his hand drops from my breast, skimming over my navel and pausing to stroke there for a moment before lowering to the apex of my thighs. I spread my feet a little to give him better access. His hands are clumsy and a little rough as he curses under his breath.

 

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he pants, his eyes holding mine entranced as he pets me. “I don’t -- what should I -- Katniss, help me.”

 

I roll my hips beneath his hand and he gradually gets the idea, fingers gently exploring which spots to press and which to rub, and there is something so erotic about the inexperienced and hesitant way he touches me. I let him keep going, intending to remain silent but unable to as he picks up on some kind of hidden cue each time he finds a spot on me that sends a shard of need through me and focuses there.

 

Unable to handle or face the force of the wave building inside me, I turn my head so that I don’t have to look at him. I cling to him and bite down on the striped collar of his letterman’s jacket as he murmurs to me about how incredible I feel on his fingers and how much he wants me to come. His finger slips inside me and I jerk my hips.

 

“Katniss?” he asks and pauses, but I whimper and claw at his shoulders and he slowly pumps me. “Like this?”

 

“More,” I say, strangling my voice and hoping he doesn’t hear the need or the relief in it when he slides a second, thick finger inside me. I ride his hand, unashamedly thinking of how thick his dick was in my hand and how it might feel inside me.

 

We’re silent for a few minutes after that, him trying to push me over the precipice and me clinging to it, frightened by what I see below. I focus on the perspiration beading on his neck. His thumb catches on my clit and I buck violently against him.

 

“Shit! Did I hurt you?” he asks, and as he slowly tries to remove his hand from me, I panic.

 

“NO!” I shout and grip his wrist with one hand, unwilling to let go of his hair with the other.

 

“Oh,” he whispers as we stare at each other, wide eyed and gulping for air. “So I did something you liked.”

 

His lips curl in a confident smile, blues eyes refusing to let me look away again as his hand resumes moving and I keen into the night. My hips, his hand, and that steady, determined gaze of his, and oh god, when he curls his fingers inside me, it feels so impossibly good that I can’t hold on to sanity anymore, flying apart in rippling waves of golden light as Peeta watches with awe. I moan his name and then collapse in on myself, undone by a simple virgin.

 

“Wow, Katniss,” he whispers, his fingers still between my pussy lips. He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me. I’m so relaxed and floating in a haze of bliss from my orgasm that I don’t even realize what he’s doing, in fact my lips move willingly with his in a gentle give and take until his tongue licks over the seam of my lips. I turn my head and gulp air. Peeta must think I’m as overcome by the kiss as he is. I am. Just not in the same way. It’s the first time I’ve kissed a boy. “Just...wow.”

 

I scowl at his dumbfounded response, anger coalescing in me at what we just did. At the thudding of my heart and the yearning in my gut to do it again. To go further. To give away the only thing I have that is worth anything in this world to this boy.

 

“Can you get off me?” I snarl, and Peeta jerks his hand back from my crotch. Steps away from me. I immediately want to call him back, but I can’t. Whatever this is between us is dangerous. I can’t be giving out hand jobs and quickies for free. As I button my dress and zip my coat back up, his eyes flicker between me and his glistening fingers.

 

“I don’t understand,” he says. “What just happened?”

 

“About a hundred dollars in services,” I tell him as I lift my chin and dare him to contradict me.

 

“Are you serious?” he asks as a myriad of emotions drift over his features. Fear, confusion, anger... and hurt? I numb myself to his feelings and stand my ground, half-expecting this night of firsts to also be the first time a customer faced with a bill hits me in anger.

 

“You didn’t think this was a freebie, did you?”

 

“No, I thought -- you know what? Forget what I thought,” he says, wiping my arousal off on his jeans. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. “Here. All I’ve got is a fifty, and it was meant to get gas in my car and pay for Winter Ball tickets.”

 

“Well that’s nice,” I say as I snag the cash from him. “You owe me another fifty.”

 

“Fine,” he mutters, combing his hand through his hair again. “Great, I owe you fifty and now you get to tell the whole school what a pathetic loser I am. Fuck, I can’t believe I let you touch me.”

 

“Let me touch you?” I rail as I am blinded with fury. “Let’s get something straight here, Mellark. You  _ wanted _ me to touch you. You  _ wanted _ to touch  _ me _ . I’ve caught you staring at my ass and my tits in school.”

 

“Yeah, but those aren’t the only parts of you I was staring at!” He’s right, but I can’t allow him to work his way any further under my skin than he already has. Someone like him is a threat to me. So I push him so hard he won’t look back.

 

“Think of this as an investment,” I suggest, waving the money in front of his face. “Now you not only know how to dance but also how to finger fuck a girl and even get her off. I’m sure your date to the Winter Ball will be ecstatic about that. Maybe you’ll even get a blow job in return for it.”

 

His face turns purple and I brace for the hit, but he whirls on his feet and douses the fire with the bucket of water so fast, that steam fills the cabin, clouding my vision and filling my ears with a hiss.

 

“So all that was just an act? You were just using me?”

 

His words sting in the worst way possible. Is that what I did? I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past myself to sink that low, but I’m the prostitute in this situation. He used me. I hold tight to that conviction and keep my silence.

 

He doesn’t follow me when I leave. I try not to cry.

 

************************

 

I don’t tell my mother where I’m going. I never do. She catches me at the door and tries to ask, her eyes blurring as she examines my cat eye makeup and the short dress I’m wearing, which is far too impractical for the February chill outside. Tears leak from her eyes as she begs me to stay in tonight, although she can’t give me a good reason why. I want to remind her that no one you love ever comes back. That’s what happens when they die.

 

Wrenching my arm free of her grasp, I ignore her pleading and sobbing. She wouldn’t have heard me anyways, too busy injecting as many hits as she could into her veins in the ten seconds after I leave. 

 

I walk the streets of town and it isn’t long before a man emerges from one of the shops, keys jingling in his hands. He whistles at me as I walk past and I give him a smile, make sure to swish my hips. He follows the swaying motion and falls into step beside me.

 

“So uh, whatcha doing tonight, baby?”

 

“Hopefully you,” I say and smile again. It feels like a grimace, the fakest and foulest of expressions I could be wearing right now. He rifles in his wallet and counts his money.

 

“I got three hundred. What’s that get me?”

 

“At the least, a really good fuck,” I tell him and he grins, following me the two blocks to The Hob. We make our way through the open air market, the sounds of his belt and zipper loud in the deserted space. I find us a stall and step into it as he pulls out his penis.

 

“I see you almost every night, baby. When I close up my shop. I jack off to the thought of you in just those boots.”

 

His words slip into then out of my ears. I don’t care about his fantasy. I don’t care about anything but the fines the pharmacist dropped on our doorstep earlier this week, claiming reparations for what my mother stole from his stock. I grip this man’s penis and roll the condom over him. Perfunctory, not gentle.

 

“Fuck baby, slow down,” he coos. His hands rest on my shoulders and he pushes me down to my knees. I go, only because the pile of money is already laying on the hay strewn floor. Three hundred dollars. I suck his penis as he holds his pants open on his hips. All that talking, I expected him to be loud, but he’s not. Even his breathing is quiet, the sounds of my mouth on him the only ones in the quiet space.

 

“Stop,” he orders and I look up at him as he pulls out of my mouth. I nip the tip and he shivers. “That enough to fuck you from behind and cum on your back?”

 

“That’ll cost the full three,” I tell him, making up the price as we go.

 

“On your feet.”

 

I stand and turn my back to him, grip the wooden boards as he enters me. He starts slow and builds his way up, I guess so he’s got enough control to know when he’s about to come. I’ve never let a guy jizz on my back before. I’m not exactly thrilled by the idea, but I brought wipes. I shut my eyes and moan every few thrusts, which he seems to like.

 

“Those boots are fucking hot,” he hisses as he picks up speed. I want to tell him to shut up. To never mention my boots again. To go back to silence. I should’ve made it another one of my rules. Blocking out his words, I focus on the quiet of the winter night. Until it’s shattered by a high female giggle.

 

My customer pauses as footsteps sound on the wooden boards of The Hob and a couple comes into view through the slats of the stall hiding us. Her pale lavender gown swirls out from beneath her short coat as she drags a boy into the shadows behind her. That’s right. Tonight is the Winter Ball.

 

“Well look at that,” my customer whispers and resumes thrusting. “We’re gonna get a show.”

 

“Come on, Peeta,” the girl whispers excitedly. “Isn’t this so much better than the slag heap? We’ve got the place to ourselves.”

 

She opens her arms and twirls as the floor crumbles beneath my feet. I can’t watch this, but my customer leans over, gripping the boards on either side of my hands as he ruts and I hold back tears. I am penned in and the only way to avoid the spectacle is to close my eyes and pretend it isn’t real.

 

He looks so handsome in his rented tux, pale flowers pinned to the lapel and his hair in carefree waves. We haven’t spoken since that night in the cabin over a month ago, although I did find a fifty dollar bill tucked into my locker one afternoon. No note.

 

I bite my lip as I watch her kiss him. No. I don't want this. I don’t want to see Peeta have sex for the first time while a stranger fucks me from behind. I don’t want to taint Peeta that way. So I turn my head and hide my face in my arm.

 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Peeta says and I nearly shout with joy.  _ Yes! Tell her you don’t want her! Or take her to a bed but don’t take her in front of me. _

 

“Just a kiss, Peeta? A romantic kiss to end the perfect night?”

 

“What a fucking pussy,” my customer whispers. “That bitch is practically tearing at his pants and he won’t fuck her. Must be gay.”

 

I purposefully clamp my walls down on him. Over and over until he grunts, muffles the sound in my coat as his hips jerk, and I hold on while he finally comes to rest. By the time he gets off of me, Peeta and the girl are gone.

 

“Don’t move,” he says and as I stand there with my bare ass hanging in the air, he peels off the condom and grins. “Yeah, baby. You thought I came, didn’t you? We ain’t done yet.”

 

He strokes himself, one hand holding me in place and I silently wait for him to finish. He peaks with a guttural moan, his cum missing my back and spraying all over my boots. The boots my father got me for my sixteenth birthday.

 

I stare at the white mess as he tucks himself back into his pants and smacks my ass, finally drawing me out of my shock.

 

“You missed,” I drawl, trying to hide my annoyance. His gaze flicks to my soiled boots as I flip my skirt back down. 

 

“Shit, Baby. I’ve already paid you a ton. Get yourself some new ones,” he mutters as he kicks the wad of cash and turns to leave. The faint light from outside glints on his gold wedding ring and I pocket the cash, unable to tell him that this will barely cover what I’m missing for my rent. But I refuse to beg for more. Instead I find a rag in another stall and scrub my precious boots clean. I don’t cry. I refuse to cry anymore. Not since that night with Peeta. Hardening my heart, I accept that my boots are just like me now. Soiled. No longer pure.

 

************************

 

My mother overdoses in April. I pay for the funeral with my body. It’s ironic if you think about it. Fucking in the place they send you after you die when you’re already dead inside. It’s the first time I feel truly scared with a client. He likes to bind my hands with leather and gets angry if I make a sound, as though one noise will wake the dead and bring judgement on his head. Turns out the pharmacist has a thing for pigtails and school uniforms. I pay my mother’s debts to him using that. And I pay for Cray’s silence so the government doesn’t step in at the eleventh hour to save the poor orphan Everdeen girl. Just three weeks until my eighteenth birthday. That’s all I have to manage.  

 

By the time her body is finally laid to rest next to my father, because it’s what he would want and not because I think she deserves it, I am exhausted and worn. Defeated. And alone.

 

The sky has already opened when I make it to the cemetery. The preacher, who hadn’t much cared about what happened to me after my father died, sweeps his eyes over me. Grey mirrors of pity that I can’t stand to have trained on me. I want to scream at him that instead of just looking and judging, maybe he should've helped at some point in the last two and a half years. But I accept the umbrella he offers because the last thing I need right now is to get sick.

 

My bags are already packed. My borrowed graduation gown returned to the school and my diploma in hand. My mother’s funeral the only thing keeping me in this town. As I stand in the rain and the preacher confers with the caretaker of the cemetery, I stare at my mother’s coffin, any words of kindness for her frozen in time.

 

And then he’s there. A shoulder brushing mine and a warm silence I didn’t realize I’d been missing. Slowly, I turn my head, just to be sure, although I already know it’s him. The comforting scent of cinnamon and soap with a faint bite of sweat and nerves that I will forever associate with laughter and life. And for the first time since he made me  _ feel  _ and I shoved him away for it, Peeta holds my gaze as I look at him.

 

I drink him in, starving for the details. His hair is shaved close to his scalp, blue eyes radiating kindness and understanding and I wonder how I ever let myself throw away the promise that I see in them. But he’s dressed in the black and gold of a naval dress uniform. A future and a scholarship to the Panem Naval Academy awaiting him. I am not surprised. I’ve kept track of him. Noted each visible bruise or cut. Every last victory and defeat during the state’s wrestling championship. The announcement when the Naval Academy accepted him and offered him a full scholarship.

 

He’s supposed to be leaving on the train later tonight.

 

His top coat is made to repel water, but it still gathers on his white hat and ears and I move closer so that we’re sharing the umbrella. His fingers find mine as the preacher begins. Not a word of the sermon reaches my ears. I hear only the drumming of the rain and the beating of my heart in my chest. I cling to his hand and stare into his eyes and wonder what would happen if I never let him go. And I hope.

 

I hope that he’s forgiven me. I hope that I didn’t break him too much. I hope that he made love to that girl in the lavender dress and maybe promised her a ring and a future to go with the shiny brass buttons of his uniform because he deserves that kind of happiness. I hope that he doesn’t forget me when he’s out on the seas.

 

“Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. May you rest in peace.”

 

Peeta blinks as the words hang in the air, then he turns and places a flower on my mother’s coffin. A single white lily. I didn’t even think to bring one. 

 

The preacher asks if I need anything before he leaves us alone, still holding hands. We wait as I try to find some way to say farewell to my mother, but the words escape me. As I turn away from her, Peeta maneuvers so that he doesn’t let me go. It’s a slow walk back through town and it’s only when we’ve reached the trailer my mother and I lived in that I realize I still have the preacher’s umbrella. I’ll have to find time to return it to him before I leave.

 

Opening the door, I drag Peeta inside behind me. Wordlessly, he follows. I drop the umbrella and heedless of the mess in my place or the months of silence, I press him back into the door and plaster my mouth to his. One of us whimpers, and his hands rest on my waist.

 

Warmth sparks in my chest and spreads through me, thawing my carefully guarded detachment. Pain follows swiftly and I release a choked sob against his cool lips. When he tries to leave me, I shatter, clinging to his coat and desperately trying to keep our mouths joined.

 

“Katniss. Don’t,” he murmurs as he turns his head aside and my lips drag across his cheek. His voice is hollow, not angry, and it’s a million times more painful than I thought. I bawl into his neck and yank on his coat as his arms tighten around me, and despite his protest, he doesn’t go. I lose command of everything and cry until there’s snot running from my nose and I’m hiccoughing and unable to control the wails leaving my throat.

 

As the last of my tears drains from me, Peeta scoops me up into his arms and carries me through the trailer. He finds my room and lays me on the bed. As his hands recede, I frantically try to pull him down with me. I don’t want to be alone with myself.

 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers. “Just taking off my coat.”

 

He shrugs out of it, draping it over my open door and placing his hat on my dresser. Then the black jacket, which he carefully places on a hanger in my closet before he helps me with mine and joins me on the bed. I sink into the warmth of his embrace and sniffle through a few more tears. Eventually, I fall asleep, waking when it’s nearly dark with my head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady against my cheek. Reluctantly, I lift my head and observe him sleeping for a few minutes.

 

The rain has stopped.

 

I slink from the bed and rifle through my wallet, pulling out a hundred dollars, although I honestly can’t spare it, and tucking it into his coat pocket. I never really wanted his money anyways. And while he’s still snoring on top of my Garfield comforter, his uniform rumpled, I take last notes of what he looks like. Now that his hat is off, I can see that he’s left the hair on top of his head slightly longer. Just enough to form small waves. I think that might be my favorite new thing about him, that he left some of the wavy locks I fingered and gripped and caressed on a frigid January night. With that last image of him, peacefully sleeping, firm in my mind, I gather my packed bags and leave.

 

The walk to the bus station takes forever. I almost turn back twice, but I am not what Peeta Mellark needs. In a hundred lifetimes, I could never deserve him. So I buy my ticket for District Seven and climb aboard.

 

************************

************************

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work was originally posted for Prompts in Panem's Round Nine - The One That Got Away. The second chapter should be up within a week. All it needs is some brush up on typos. My gratitude to peetabreadgirl, who graciously suffered through beta reading this and encouraging me to keep going rather than leaping through the internet to strangle me...okay maybe her methods of encouragement resemble Edna Mode’s, but I love you anyways, PBJ.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this story on tumblr's Prompts in Panem last month, this is the rest of what was posted there. New material will be contained in Chapter 3. Warning up front: there's Everthorne in this chapter. Gale's not a villain here but he's going to do some unflattering things before we get to his character growth.

**_FIVE YEARS LATER…_ **

 

“Show it to me, girl! I need to see the goods!”

 

Johanna cackles as I drop my purse on the table top. I let her examine the fine leather outer and the satin inner. The matching wallet buried in its depths and the crystal key fob now adorning my keys. She jangles them close to her ear and purrs. “Sounds like luxury.”

 

“Can I get you something to drink?” I turn towards the deep masculine voice and smile as I cross my arms over the table, pushing my breasts together. I look him over and run a hand down my braid. His hands twitch as I let my smile widen and my eyes finally meet his.

 

“A tall drink of water,” I simper. He swallows and nods before bustling away from the table. Too easy.

 

“Jesus, Kat,” Johanna chuckles, stuffing the keys back in my purse and sliding it across the table towards me. “I knew I taught you well, but sometimes you put even me to fucking shame.”

 

I shrug and carelessly toss the expensive designer bag onto the chair next to me before scoping out the patrons of the swanky restaurant Johanna has chosen for us. It’s a weekly date for us to meet up and have lunch. Partly for a safety check in and partly because she’s technically my friend.

 

“That one’s a keeper, though,” she says as she nods towards my new purse. “Pays you full price plus gives you expensive gifts? Those are rare.”

 

“He’s got plenty of money to spare, besides, he’s an old friend,” I try to wave it away as nothing, but Jo’s having none of it.

 

“Sure as shit beats handing out twenty dollar BJs in the back alleys of Seven, though, doesn’t it?”

 

I try not to wince at her harsh words, but they’re an unfortunately accurate description of the state she found me in two years ago. I left Twelve thinking that if I moved to a different district, I could start over, somewhere they didn’t know me as a whore. I managed for awhile. Found a couple of jobs that kept me afloat. But it turned out to be harder than I’d expected. A few swings to the economy and I reluctantly had to return to what I knew would get me money. Even that, though, wasn’t enough and I had to keep dropping my prices and taking on more and more clients to pay my rent.

 

Johanna found me arguing with a cop, my hands cuffed behind my back. A customer had stiffed me, so I took what he owed and in return, found myself arrested for theft. But Jo knew the cop and had talked me out of the charges. When I’d initially refused her further help, she’d barked in laughter and told me to fucking get off my high horse and see the light. 

 

When she brought me to District Two, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but a complete makeover and a launch under her tutelage into high society as an escort was the last thing on that short list. It wasn’t long before I found myself screwing businessmen worth millions, district governors, entrepreneurs, and even the occasional general or admiral, making more money than I knew what to do with, showered in gifts of jewels and furs and perfumes worth what I charged for an hour back home. Wearing lingerie that cost as much as my mother’s monthly salary back in Twelve and was torn or peeled off my body in seconds. 

 

I kept telling myself one more customer. Just one more and I could go back to something benign, like working as a florist or some such nonsense. Inevitably, though, the emaciated corpse of my mother would call to me through my nightmares, the spectre of near starvation, and whatever I had I earned would no longer look like enough. Just one more time. One more customer. I haven’t been hungry in years and don’t intend to be again anytime soon.

 

“Anything beats that,” I admit to Johanna as the waiter returns with my water and I gift him with another smile and a slow wink. He’s cute, but there’s no way he could afford me. It never hurts to advertise for some of the younger girls in our firm, though.

 

“I’m serious, Kitty,” Johanna continues as she swirls her champagne and eyes me over the rim of her glass. “Who do you think is paying for this lunch? Me?”

 

“Blight,” I hazard a guess at one of her regulars and she smirks at me.

 

“Damn straight he is. And that’s my point. You need regulars.”

 

“I have a regular,” I wave towards the purse again and try to ignore the annoyance growing in my gut. 

 

This is a conversation we’ve had repeatedly, and I’m getting tired of her trying to steer me in this direction. Regulars make it harder to walk away from this life, Cashmere once told me, right before she climbed into a limousine with one of her own regulars. I still don’t know if she meant that as friendly advice or a backhanded way of keeping me from turning into more competition than she could handle. That same regular of hers, a man we refer to as Brutus for his harsh features, steely gaze, and reputation as a ruthless, back stabbing business giant, owns half of District Two, along with a company that earns over 60% of the defense contracts for the Army of Panem. And he had come dangerously close to flirting and offering for me. Actually, when I told Johanna about it, she’d cackled and informed me that Brutus had been angling for a threesome, and Cashmere couldn’t abide by his choice of a much younger third. I still don’t believe her, but whatever.

 

“Hurricane doesn’t count,” Johanna informs me and taps her finger on her lip as she peruses the menu. “As handsome as he is and jealous as I am of the fact that you get to fuck that on a regular basis, he’s only one man.”

 

Ignoring her, I lift my own menu to try and decide what I want for my lunch. I don’t need to look at her to know what comes next.

 

“Plus he’s married. And married men--”

 

“Always back out at some point,” I grumble.

 

“Oh good. You’ve actually been listening and not just plotting my death,” Johanna snarks.

 

“How could I plot your death?” I ask as I lower my menu and bat my eyelashes at her. “You’re the only friend I have.”

 

“Not making me feel any safer, Kitty,” she says, but she’s grinning, and instantly her face changes as the waiter returns. The poor guy is flustered and blushing by the time he leaves with our order. “How much you wanna bet he gets the order wrong? I’d stake my life that he’s never done it with the lights on.”

 

“Jo,” I hiss and look around at the judging looks being tossed our way at her vulgar words, spoken louder than the rest of our conversation.

 

“Oh please. You act all pure, like they haven’t all figured it out yet.” Ruffling her spiky hair she leans over to the table next to us and smiles at the couple trying very hard to ignore her. “I’ll eat your wife out for three hundred bucks. It’s not much extra for you to watch.”

 

The woman gasps and they both flush, although the woman’s gaze does linger almost longingly on Jo’s ample cleavage as they rush out of the restaurant a few minutes later. I fight the urge to sink into the floor. Sometimes I wonder how she managed to get this far in a business that outwardly requires class and discretion. Until I remember that it’s actually Plutarch who does most of the leg work for us.

 

Our lunch arrives and we don’t talk much as we eat, but as the red-faced waiter clears our plates away, Jo turns to me and levels me with an intense look.

 

“So we’ve picked up a bachelor party. Huge shindig for the son of the police commissioner. Mayor’s apparently footing the bill, but whatever, I won’t bore you with details. The point is, they’ve paid for ten of our girls for an entire night at the Panem Arms. Penthouse suite. The full package, so let me know now if nature’s gonna cockblock.”

 

“Sounds lucrative,” I comment blandly. I don’t really care. Just one more job to be done.

 

“It will be. They’ve already selected which ten of us they want based on our profiles, and you were on the list. So, to avoid catfighting, I took it upon myself to divvy us up amongst the party. I reserved the groom and the best man for you and me. Seniority has it’s perks. You can thank me later.”

 

I roll my eyes, but smile slightly that she’s still looking out for me, even after all these years. She’s like the annoying older sister who secretly hates me that I never had.

 

“Which one do you want?” she asks as she slaps down some cash for the bill and we stand. “Word on the vine is that the best man is a virgin.”

 

Johanna’s eyes gleam with possibility and I scoff.

 

“I’ll take the groom,” I say immediately.

 

“You and that stupid rule of yours. I’ll never understand it,” Jo threads her arm through mine as we walk out. “Virgins are moldable.”

 

“And have ridiculous expectations,” I counter and she shrugs.

 

“So step up your game, Kitty. If you can’t meet the expectations of someone who’s never pounded pussy, you’re doing something wrong.” She pulls her diamond studded sunglasses down from their perch in her hair and slides them on her face. “Party’s on Friday at nine. Wear something nasty. He’s gonna get plenty of purity on his wedding night, I’m sure. You wanna have a spa day that morning?”

 

“Sounds good.”

 

“Usual time at Cinna’s?”

 

“I’ll see you then,” I tell her and tilt my cheek as we air kiss.

 

“See you Friday!” she trills, waving her burgundy lacquered nails at me.

 

************************

 

“Uh fuck. Fuck, yeah,” he moans as his hips smack into mine and finally fall still. He brushes a few locks of sweat soaked hair off my forehead and kisses my neck, lips aggressive. His hand grips my ankle where it rests on his shoulder and he sighs before pulling my leg down. When he pulls his flaccid dick out, his eyes roam over me and I let my legs spread for him to stare a little longer. He stands and peels off the condom, tossing it in the trash can before helping me up off his bed.

 

“You sure I can’t get you tomorrow, too?”

 

“Sorry,” I say as I saunter into his bathroom. “I have an appointment.”

 

“So cancel it. Or get them to find someone else to do it.”

 

“You know I can’t,” I say as I lean around the doorframe to smile at him. He follows me, grabbing another condom on his way. “Besides, your wife would never allow it. Aren’t Friday nights and weekends sacred times to be spent with her?”

 

“Yeah,” he admits as he starts the water in his shower. “I can rearrange my morning to make time for you, though.”

 

He leans down to kiss me, and I turn at the last second. He is undeterred, lips firm on my ear and neck. Commanding. The kiss of someone who always gets his way.

 

“I want you,” he murmurs, gripping my hips and pulling me into him. His penis is swelling again, and I smirk up at him as I wrap my arms around his neck.

 

“Again, tiger?” I ask and he laughs.

 

“Don’t act so surprised, Catnip,” he teases and opens a nearby drawer to produce a bottle of lube. His slick fingers slide between my legs and work over me. “You’re addictive.”

 

I let my head fall back as he walks us under the warm spray of the shower. Wait patiently as he rolls the condom on. Let him lift my leg and enter me in one swift thrust. I sigh and moan as he fucks me against the shower wall. Rake my nails down his back as he comes with a shudder because I know he likes that.

 

When he pulls out, he washes quickly then leaves me to take care of myself. When I step from the shower and wrap one of the fluffy towels around my body, he watches me in the mirror, his hands rapidly knotting his tie.

 

“So, Friday?” he asks expectantly.

 

“I can’t, Gale,” I tell him, unable to meet his eyes as I dry off. “They asked for me specifically. Jo and I always have a spa date the morning before appointments like this.”

 

“Then quit,” he says and the harshness in his tone stuns me. He whirls around to face me as I wrap the towel back around myself to hide from him. “Quit and let me take care of you.”

 

“Gale, I --”

 

“Get dressed and then meet me in the other room. I’ve got something I want to show you.”

 

He stalks from the bathroom, leaving me on edge, thinking of Jo’s constant worry about married men. I dress quickly and wrap my wet hair up into a bun. I’ve got time to go home and deal with it properly before I have to meet my evening client. Seeing Gale this morning was a last minute deal anyways. He’d texted me early this morning.

 

_ I just had a meeting get canceled. 10 AM at my apartment. _

 

His language may not be poetry, but it gets the point across. There’s also the fact that his cryptic way of summoning me also keeps his wife from being suspicious, I suppose. 

 

Padding back down the hall and into his office, I snatch up my discarded heels and walk towards the massive oak desk that takes up most of the space. Gale’s already on the phone, one hand in a pocket of his suit pants as he stares out over the city skyline. I perch on the corner of the desk and take in the view. It never fails to steal my breath away, the bustling city falling away to the wide plains of District Four and then the ocean. The river a shining snake slithering its way into the heart of the city and the harbour.

 

As I watch the harbour below us, a ship pulls into the docks and bellows it’s greeting to the city. My pulse stutters as the flash of blue eyes skips across my mind. I suppress it quickly. And when my breathing levels out once more, I congratulate myself. I’m getting better at that.

 

“I’ll be back in the office in twenty minutes. See that it’s done by the time I get there,” Gale commands before hanging up the phone and turning to me. He pulls a folder from a drawer in his desk and tosses it down next to me.

 

“What’s this?” I ask, and lift the corner of the folder.

 

“An apartment on Vine and Central, just around the corner from here. Say the word and it’s yours. Comes with a personal chef and a housekeeper.”

 

“Gale,” I gasp as I flip through the pictures of the lavish home. I don’t live in the slums anymore, but this is beyond my wildest imaginings. “I don’t understand.”

 

“I love you, Katniss,” he confesses and my heart plummets at the words. “I want you. You want me. This should be simple and easy.”

 

“You’re married,” I remind him as I hop off the desk and struggle to get my heels back on. “Nothing between us will ever be simple.”

 

“I married Madge when I was twenty, Catnip. I had no fucking clue what I wanted out of life.”

 

“Well I imagine the big tits and her Daddy’s connections had a lot to do with it,” I say and wrench my shoe into place before grabbing my bag -- no, the bag  _ he  _ got for me.

 

“Look, I know it isn’t perfect. I can’t divorce her. You know I would do it in a second for you, right?” When I don’t answer, he keeps going. “Divorcing her would destroy my company and everything that I’ve worked for.”

 

“Especially if you left her for a whore,” I bite out and whirl around to leave.

 

“Don’t call yourself that,” Gale snarls as he grabs my arm and spins me back around to face him. “Don’t say that about the woman I love.”

 

He smiles at me and the promise of his offer shines brightly in his grey eyes, almost the same color as mine. Almost too good to be true.

 

“Gale, this is a huge risk for me to take. What happens when I get old and you get bored with me? Or if Madge finds out?”

 

“Who cares?”

 

“I do,” I shout.

 

“You haven’t cared before,” he says, his brows drawing together as a storm gathers in his eyes.

 

“Well,” I say as I cross my arms and glare up at him. “You aren’t exactly the only guy that I’ve been fucking, let alone the only married one.”

 

“Katniss,” he growls. “I don’t want you to fuck anyone else anymore. Just me. Isn’t that what you want, too?”

 

I search for a telltale flutter of my heart. Something,  _ anything _ , to tell me that taking this leap with him will be worth it. But Johanna’s warnings ring louder in my head. Eventually, things with Gale  _ will  _ end, and then what would become of me? I can’t allow myself to become dependent on him. My mother did that with my father and look what happened to her.

 

“It doesn’t matter what I want. This is how I survive,” I whisper. His hands fall away from me and he expels a powerful breath.

 

“And here I thought we were on the same page,” he mutters. Then he shoves the folder into my hands. “Take this. Think about it. And let me know if you change your mind.”

 

It sounds so final and my stomach sinks as I realize this may be my last time with him. Next to Johanna, Gale’s the closest thing I have to a friend, and if that isn’t a sad statement on my life, I don’t know what is. I blink back the sting in my eyes as I look up at him.

 

“Sometimes I wonder if things would’ve been different if I’d stayed in Twelve a little longer,” he says as he pulls out his phone and swipes taps taps taps. My phone pings in my purse, alerting me that funds have been deposited in my work account.

 

“Well, you didn’t,” I tell him and run out of his office, grabbing my coat off the rack as I blaze out of his apartment and straight to the elevator. It whisks me to the ground floor and back to reality.

 

************************

 

“The works, Cinna,” Johanna orders as she sweeps her coat off her shoulders and hangs it up on the elaborate twisted brass coat rack just inside the door of Cinna’s Salon. He smiles warmly at both of us and hugs me lightly, examining me with his green eyes that miss nothing. Not a stray hair or a ding in a nail. I avert my eyes and try to smile.

 

“Lovely to see you girls again,” he murmurs as he releases me without questioning me. “What’s the occasion?”

 

“Bachelor party and possible deflowering of a virgin,” Johanna announces as she twirls one of the racks with nail polish, examining the colors. “Kat there has the groom so we need bombshell on her, not pretty little girl.”

 

Cinna eyes me for a moment, and if I didn’t already know the workings of his mind, the close scrutiny might unnerve me. But Jo and I have been coming to Cinna since she brought me here from Seven and he made me virtually unrecognizable. She’d called him a fucking genius and vowed that we’d never be seeing another beautician for the rest of our lives.

 

“Jo needs to not be terrifying,” I manage to say and Cinna laughs. She wrinkles her nose at me.

 

“Maybe he’s a kinky virgin. You don’t know.”

 

Cinna sweeps us both back into the private lounges in his salon. Within minutes, we’re set up with mineral water and our feet propped up to be primped and polished. No matter how many times I go through this plucking and waxing ordeal, I never get used to it and wince every time Flavius yanks out another misbehaving hair. Usually I try to pretend that I’m in the yoga studio I frequent, but it’s not working today.

 

For some reason, my mind wanders instead to rolling waves and the color blue. Deep indigo blue between sunset and night. My pulse slows and my breathing calms --

 

“Katniss!” Johanna shouts and I jump, looking at her with wide eyes. She never calls me that. “Are you on fucking Mars or something? Didn’t you hear me?”

 

“I...no,” I admit, ashamed that for the second time in two days, I’ve let my thoughts wander places I’ve forbidden them to go for years. Five years, to be exact.

 

“I asked how your date went last night.”

 

“Oh, it was fine,” I tell her with a shrug. Chewing on my lip, I debate telling her about Gale’s offer. I have a pretty good idea of what she’d say, though. Her eyes narrow at me. She’s like a fucking bloodhound where lies are concerned. An unfortunate quality to have in a friend.

 

“Something’s up with you.”

 

“I’m fine,” I insist, but as Cinna takes one of my hands in his to begin buffing my nails, I look pleadingly into his eyes and find no reprieve.

 

“You do seem a little tense today, Katniss.”

 

“Is it supposed to snow tonight?” I deflect and am grateful when Octavia picks up on my inane comment and runs with it, chattering about how excited she is for the first snow of the year. I slowly relax as Johanna opens her mouth to interrupt, but decides not to, although I am sure she’ll be grilling me later.

 

Cinna does me a slight favor after that, ushering me into one of the back rooms to begin the worst part of this without Johanna harping on me. By the time we finish and I’m basically hairless and stinging from the neck down, Johanna seems to have moved on from what’s bothering me. I work extra hard to keep it that way as Cinna and his team work on our hair and makeup, and when we part ways to finish getting ready, I breathe a sigh of relief.

 

The afternoon is mine to relax. I take a short walk in the park, the only place in District Two with decent trees anymore. Nestled at the foot of the mountains, this part of Panem grew until it reached its borders. Then they started building higher. Now skyscrapers reach towards the sky, a mirror to the mountain ranges behind it. District Four squashed in District’s Two’s embrace along the sea. The park is as close as I can get to the woods and lakes of my home District, tucked back in the mountains.

 

When I get back to my apartment, I pour myself a glass of wine, a gift from Gale when he took a business trip to another country. I swirl the dark red liquid in the glass before taking a slow sip. Hurricane, Johanna and I call him when we’re talking, because you never know who might overhear us. Each of our clients gets a nickname to protect us as much as to protect them. His offer still weighs on me. It’d be nice, to only have one person to please. No more awkward small talk or sad attempts at flirtations. I’m past all of that with Gale.

 

It wasn’t always easy with him, though. Gale and I knew each other from back home, but since he’s two years older than me, he’d already left town when my father and Prim were killed. We only vaguely knew one another as kids. Our parents were friends and that meant we’d get thrown together at holidays and neighborhood functions, but Gale always had other guys to hang out with and a bevy of female admirers, all vying to be the girl on his arm. The first time I ran into him here, I was working, hired by one of the younger associates in Gale’s company to be his date to an office function. Once he’d recognized me, Gale struck up a conversation with me, monopolizing my time until the guy who’d actually paid for me grew impatient. One stern look from Gale, though, and the guy disappeared. I ended up with Gale at his downtown apartment that night. He paid extravagantly well and booked me for the next three days, mid-morning appointments to fuck in his apartment, far from the house on the edge of the city where his wife lives. 

 

The next day, my actual customer left a glowing review with my firm. When I asked Gale about that, he’d shrugged and said that as the man’s boss, he held at least a little bit of sway with him. I didn’t much care for the way Gale had muscled out a customer for me. I kept the appointments with him because I didn’t have much of a choice unless Gale did something to bodily hurt me or threatened to hurt me. He hadn’t, but it took us months of reluctant, awkward, and unsatisfactory sex before I finally figured out that he kind of liked it rough and paid me better for it. So I threw myself into it and eventually, he started paying some attention to what I liked too. And that’s the story of how I got my one and only regular customer.

 

Sometimes I wonder if Gale’s done something to scare off other potential regulars, but I’ve no idea how he’d manage to get that kind of information. Plutarch runs his business with the pride of absolute discretion and privacy.

 

Sipping and savoring my wine, I munch on some toast and cheese, a few apple slices. Nothing too heavy in case the groom is a bouncer. Just enough to absorb the alcohol so I’m not drunk and useless by the end of the night.

 

I wander into my closet and run my hands over the silks, velvets, and satins. They’re a far cry from my cotton dresses and knee high boots. I tug a dress out by the sleeve and evaluate my options. While Johanna suggested that I wear something “nasty” for the groom, her idea of nasty and mine are completely different. I don’t have time to go shopping for something that would meet her nasty standards, so I meet mine. Sheer black panties and matching garter belt with scrollwork decoration. A black long-line bustier with tiny buttons down the front to give me some much needed lift. Thigh high stockings, killer black heels, and a rich purple wrap dress. Cinna’s already done my makeup except for my lipstick, so I slick on some wine colored gloss and pucker for the mirror.

 

I still think I look ridiculous dressed like this, but my clients have never once complained. With a last fluff of my hair to ensure volume as well as a sultry fall of bangs over one eye, I put on my best coat and head back into the night. Gale overpaid me yesterday, so I spring for a cab, smile at the driver and manage to walk away paying only part of the fare.

 

Immediately after entering through the gold and glass doors of the Panem Arms Hotel, my gaze is drawn upwards to a high painted ceiling with a massive crystal chandelier scattering prismatic light around the lobby. My heels clack loudly on polished marble floors, and as I look around, I spot several people cloistered in velvet highbacks and long brocade sofas, sipping sparkling drinks that bubble and probably cost a fortune. Gems glitter from ears and necklines. It’s something out of a magazine or a dream.

 

“May I help you, madame?” A uniformed staff member greets me within seconds of walking into the hotel.

 

“Yes,” I say as he bows to me, surprised that he hasn’t tossed me out on my ear for the imposter that I am. “I’m Kat. I’m here for the penthouse affair?”

 

“Ah, yes, madame,” he waves a bellhop over and instructs the man to escort me to the penthouse suite. Turning to me, he bows once more and informs me that there is no need to tip this evening as the host has already taken care of everything for his guests.

 

“Thank you,” I say as I follow the bellhop, wondering just how loaded this groom must be to be able to tip all of the bellhops and room service enough for the entire night, not to mention make hotel management bend over backwards to take care of glorified courtesans. As well off as I am, that kind of wealth still astonishes me with the laissez-faire attitude that inevitably seems to come with it. I’m still counting pennies and arguing with myself when I feel like ordering Chinese takeout from the place across town which has better food but charges for the distance they have to deliver. 

 

“Right this way, madame,” he says, leading me to an elevator. He inserts a key next to the gilded letter  _ P _ and turns. The doors silently close and I barely feel the elevator begin to move. The bellhop dispels silence with small talk about weather and a few tidbits of the building’s history, bowing to me once more as the doors slide open onto a massive room.

 

“Kitty!” Johanna shouts as I step off the carriage. The other girls are already here and call out greetings to me. “The party hasn’t arrived yet, but any minute now. Take off your coat and get comfortable so we can welcome them appropriately.”

 

“Shhhh! It’s a surprise,” Glimmer giggles, hanging on Clove’s arm for support. She’s already tipsy. Ugh, what a bimbo.

 

She slurs her words and Johanna rolls her eyes. I slide off my coat, handing it to one of a half dozen waiters in white tails who bustle about the room preparing drinks, hors d'oeuvres and seeing to everyone’s comfort needs. After storing my coat in the closet, Johanna gives me a brief tour, but I’m already so overwhelmed by the opulence of the lobby that the grandeur of the place is a little lost on me.

 

“Alright, Kitty,” Johanna says as we settle on the brocade couch, each with a glass of champagne. “You got out of Cinna’s without telling me the scoop. What’s going on?”

 

“Nothing,” I repeat.

 

“Bullshit,” Johanna says.

 

“Can I tell you tomorrow?” I hedge. “I’d rather focus on this job right now.”

 

“Ah, so it is work related. Fine, Kat, have it your way, but only because I know that if you’re on your game, this could be a fabulous night for both us and the firm. So don’t blow it, okay? Blow the groom.”

 

“Real classy,” I drawl as Johanna cackles at her own joke.

 

We don’t have time to talk anymore, though, because the elevator once more opens and a red-haired man is shoved into our midst to loud cheers.

 

“SURPRISE!” Eight male voices boom the word.

 

The groom stands upright just before he careens into Glimmer and her DD breasts. He licks his lips as she smiles and shimmies her shoulders for him, greeting him with a breathless, “Hey there, handsome.” His face turns as red as his hair, and he whirls around to seek confirmation from his buddies, who’ve all vacated the elevator.

 

One of the waiters collects coats, another takes drink orders as the group talks and laughs boisterously. Johanna zeroes in on a lanky man with sandy brown hair who must be the best man, as he speaks rapidly with her about assigning girls. He eyes asses and tits and nods in approval as his friends slowly pair off to socialize, clapping the groom on the shoulder before they leave his side. There’s something sleazy in his gaze that makes me glad I already picked the timid-looking groom.

 

Johanna then links her arm with the red-haired groom as the sandy haired man steps close to Clove and says something that makes her laugh. Confused, I sip my champagne, wondering who Johanna will be taking care of as she drags the groom over to my side and practically tosses him down on the couch next to me.

 

“Darius, this lovely morsel is Kat,” Johanna says and settles on Darius’ other side. He laughs nervously and looks between us.

 

“I, um, not sure if--”

 

“What Darius is trying to say, Kat, is that the best man is late,” Johanna says, waving one of the waiters over. “Champagne, Darius?”

 

“Sure,” he says, accepting the glass and turning to smile at me. “I had no idea they were planning this.”

 

“So I gathered,” I murmur, taking a sip of my own drink and blinking slowly at him over my glass.

 

“Uh, so do I get both of you ladies, or...?”

 

“Only until your best man gets here, sweet cheeks. Unless he wants to sit this one out and gift you with a threesome. We can certainly do that.”

 

I try to shake my head, but with Darius looking between us so quickly, it’s hard to pull off a silent conversation with Jo. I’ve never done a threesome, and the idea of breaking that barrier with Johanna in the room is making my hands shake. I don’t perform well under that kind of pressure.

 

“Nah,” Darius says, ruffling his hair and blushing again. “I wouldn’t wanna deprive him. He’s been out of the country for about a year and a half.”

 

“Oh, poor baby,” Johanna coos, resting her hand on Darius’ knee, and I can almost see her plotting how to make the best man’s homecoming a memorable one. I send up a silent plea that she won’t suggest a foursome. I wouldn’t put it past her.

 

“Ah,” Darius looks down at Johanna’s hand, and at first, I think he’s going to protest, but he grins and stretches his arm along the back of the couch so he can lean in closer to her. “He got held up at work. He called me about thirty minutes ago while we were at dinn--”

 

“Shhh,” Johanna hushes him. “I wanna hear about you. So what do you do for a living, Darius?”

 

“Oh, I work on the police force,” he stammers a little, but still doesn’t protest when Jo’s hand starts rubbing up and down his leg, travelling higher with each pass. I should probably be the one draped all over Darius and flirting with him, but reluctance drags at me. Even though my job requires me to do these things, it usually takes me a few minutes to warm up to the task. Besides, Jo seems to have the situation completely under her control.

 

I’m starting to feel like a third wheel and glance around the room for something to distract me. Jo giggles at something Darius says and I try not to sigh. The music and the raucous laughter of the other party-goers drowns out most of what Darius and Jo say to one another. I try not to gape at Glimmer as she grinds her ass against the crotch of her date, his glassy eyes fixated on her swiveling hips as her movements force her dress up higher on her legs. The alcohol flows generously, and the men all seem to be having the time of their lives.

 

Time ticks away, marking the progress of Jo’s hand as it inches closer to Darius’ crotch and the obvious bulge growing there. She twirls his hair around her fingers and nibbles on his ear, making him suck air into his lungs. I’ve just about resigned myself to the threesome, swirling my champagne and watching the bubbles pop in the glass, when the elevator slides open once more.

 

“Yo! Peeta! You made it!” someone shouts over the music.

 

My heart stutters to a stop, and as I look up at the man walking off the elevator, a hesitant smile on his face and water droplets clinging to the broad shoulders of his coat, all I can think is:  _ Not him _ .  _ Why him? _

 

But it  _ is  _ him. Same naval uniform I last saw him in, only with golden braids looping his wrists that weren’t there the last time we were together. The blonde hair and the blue eyes that taunt me in my dreams and glide across my thoughts when I forget to guard myself against him are unmistakable as they brighten marginally at the greeting. 

 

He shakes hands with the sandy haired man, who’s still got Clove draped over his arm, her hand tucked into his back pocket. Darius extricates himself from Johanna’s grasp to go greet his best man.

 

“Hel-looooo, sailor,” Johanna whistles. “How is  _ that _ a virgin?”

 

Darius hugs Peeta and then steps back, gesturing wildly with his hands and talking animatedly, but my hearing is muted. Like I’m in a bubble submerged beneath the water. It’s been five years since I last saw him, and not once during those five years did I allow myself to think about what this moment would be like, should I ever see him again. I flounder on the waves of my emotions, and it’s only when Darius motions over towards Johanna and me that I am able to come to my senses. Peeta glances over at us, and then away. He didn’t even recognize me. 

 

“That’s our cue, Kat,” Johanna says, unfolding herself from the couch. My hand shoots out and grips her knee, keeping her in her seat. “Ow! Kat, your nails.”

 

“I’ve changed my mind,” I tell her.

 

“About what, Brainless? Hurry it up, we’ve got work to do.”

 

“That’s what I’ve changed my mind about,” I hiss, not releasing her yet. Her eyes narrow at me.

 

“Talk fast, sister.” My brain churns with excuses. I have to sell this to her or she’ll see right through me. I don’t even know what I’m thinking right now except that the image of Johanna dragging Peeta into a room somewhere makes me physically ill.

 

“I’ll take the best man,” I say and Johanna snorts.

 

“What about your precious rule?”

 

“Come on, Jo.” I aim for a teasing tone. “You said it yourself.  _ That _ is probably not a virgin. Besides, you’ve already got a much better rapport going with Darius than I do. And isn’t the groom really the one we’re here to please?”

 

“Good point,” she says, contemplating the situation. “Alright. Sailor’s all yours.”

 

I release her leg and she stands, dragging me up with her. I wobble slightly on my heels and Jo makes a crack that I ignore about me still being a rookie. I’m too focused on not tripping and what on earth I’m going to say to Peeta after all these years. All of the standard greetings don’t seem like enough for him. I’ve made no progress in figuring it out when we finally halt in front of the two men, Clove having already dragged hers off to one of the many bedrooms. That girl is aggressive.

 

“Introductions!” Darius says jovially as Johanna releases me to slip beneath his arm. “Uh, this is Jo. And that’s Kat. Ladies, this is Peeta. Poor guy’s been stuck on a ship for over a year, so his manners might be a little rough.”

 

“Not to worry. Kat can handle them a little rough around the edges,” Johanna says, and Peeta turns to look at me as Darius laughs. His lips open marginally and I can see it in his eyes, the moment he recognizes me. He blinks and clamps his mouth shut, then holds out his hand to me.

 

“A pleasure to meet you...Kat.” The stress he puts on my name confirms that he knows exactly who I am. Still, I place my hand in his and we shake. It’s brusque and all wrong and I wonder if leaving him the night after my mother’s funeral broke him more than demanding he pay for making me come.

 

A waiter interrupts to offer to take Peeta’s coat and hat, breaking the spell he’s put me under with his eyes as he turns to answer the man and shrug out of his overcoat. He’s grown a little taller since I last saw him, and his shoulders, already so broad in high school, seem impossibly so now. His jaw more defined, accentuated by the high collar of his uniform, and he carries himself with a confidence that was never there before. When the server leaves us alone again, I realize that Jo and Darius disappeared at some point. Looking around the room, I find them on the couch once more. Jo has clearly moved on from flirtations, straddling his lap and bending backwards to showcase her flexibility before whipping her head back up to kiss his nose and swivel her hips. Darius’ hands clench on her ass and pull her dress up just a fraction of an inch so his fingers can slip beneath her panties. Clearing my throat, I turn back to face Peeta.

 

“So, Peeta,” I start, although my voice quavers a little. “A whole year on a ship. What was that like?”

 

“I need a drink,” he says, shaking his head and walking away from me towards the bar. 

 

Stunned, I stand there for a moment until a passing waiter murmurs an apology and I realize I am still blocking the entryway like an idiot. Gathering my wits, I swallow the last of my champagne and march over to the bar. I stand next to Peeta and glare at him, furious at the casual way he brushed me off. He barely tilts his head to look at me as the bartender sets a shot glass full of dark amber liquid in front of Peeta. He picks it up and turns to me with a cold smile on his face.

 

“What shall we drink to, Kat?” he sneers my name and it hits me that maybe I really did break him. This isn’t the Peeta that I remember.

 

“I don’t have a drink,” I tell him and slide into the seat next to him.

 

“You’re right. How rude of me. What’ll you have? A screwdriver? Maybe a fireball? Or wait, I’ve  got it...a heartbreak Helen.”

 

I stare at him as he orders the last one for me. He slides his glass over the surface of the bar and stares intently into his drink as we wait. I watch a tick in his jaw. The bartender is quick about it, nervously shifting his gaze between the two of us. He sets the glass in front of me and beats a hasty retreat. Once more, Peeta lifts his glass towards me.

 

“Here’s to unwelcome surprises and unexpected reunions,” he says and throws back the drink in one gulp before turning the glass upside down on the bar. This must be some understood signal, because within seconds, the bartender has placed another shot in front of Peeta.

 

“I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” I tell him.

 

“Obviously,” he says, voice thick with sarcasm. “Otherwise you would’ve left an hour ago.”

 

“So what's your excuse? Doesn't the best man usually plan these things?” I smirk at him, waiting for him to admit that he’s just another guy looking to score. That he had to have known I'd be here. Johanna did say the girls were selected based on our profiles.

 

“Didn't exactly have the means to plan a lavish bachelor party from the middle of the ocean,” he says, his eyes mocking me and knocking the smirk right off my face. “The other groomsmen offered to take care of it for me.”

 

“You’ve changed,” I say. Peeta stares at me, and I search his eyes for just a flicker of the warmth and innate goodness that I remember. He blinks and for a second, I see it, and then he hides it.

 

“It’s been four years, Katniss,” he whispers.

 

“Five,” I correct automatically and Peeta’s expression shifts. Speculative this time.

 

“And you’ve barely changed at all,” he murmurs before upending his glass again and downing the shot in one gulp. If he keeps this up, he’s going to be smashed by the end of the night. His words aggravate me, though. Is my presence so insufferable to him that he needs to drug himself to be in the same room as me?

 

“I’m not the girl who sucked off teachers between classes for a fifty or banged the mortician to pay for her mother’s funeral anymore,” I hiss at him. If he wants to be cruel, I can dish it right back.

 

“No, you’re certainly not,” he breathes the words in a sensual caress, as warm and as intoxicating as the bourbon he’s downing in quick successive shots. I blink as the heat of them coils low in my middle. His eyes travel down my body and back up in an agonizing perusal, and I am breathing hard by the time his blue eyes meet mine again. 

 

“And what about you,” I snap, annoyed with my body’s reaction to him.

 

“Are we back to small talk, Katniss? I was hoping that seeing as how I’m kind of a repeat customer, we could skip the formalities.” He can’t hold my eyes through his speech and he throws back a third shot, his gaze flickering between me and the bottles in a neat, glimmering row behind the bar. Smug triumph fills me and I can’t explain why it makes me so happy, but it does. I hook my heels on the rungs of my chair, slide my hand along the bar and lean in to whisper in his ear.

 

“Peeta Mellark, you don’t fool me. You’re still a virgin. Aren’t you?” I nuzzle his earlobe, and his entire body shudders. Shoving himself away from the bar, he stands abruptly, tossing a few bills down on the bar and leaving me sitting there, stunned once more, and wondering if this is how annoyed he felt every time I walked out on him.

 

“Guess no one told him about the tips,” the bartender says, picking up the bills. It’s a generous gift. Just like Peeta to do something like tip far too much, but it makes me smile and hold onto the hope that my Peeta is still in there somewhere. I take a sip of the drink he ordered for me and reluctantly admit that it tastes good. Smooth and sweet with a slight bite of lime on the aftertaste.

 

“Keep it,” I tell the bartender. “He’d be insulted if you tried to give it back. Can I get a beer for him?”

 

“Sure thing, miss,” he says.

 

With the drinks in my hands, I search the suite for him. Several of the rooms are already occupied, groans and shouts and assorted other noises of debauchery only just audible. The place must have amazing sound control. There’s only so many places he could be, but even still, I’ve about given up when I notice one of the panels of the sheer curtains covering the wall of windows fluttering.

 

Pulling it back, I find one of the windows is actually a door, and sliding it open, I slip through before closing it once more. I shiver but follow the narrow balcony as it traverses the length of the penthouse. Near the end, there’s a staircase that I carefully climb. When I reach the top, I gasp.

 

The whole world is laid out below us. The sea to the east, the mountains to the west, the entire city an ocean of light surrounding the hotel. White flakes swirl and flutter in the wind. And in the middle of it all, Peeta Mellark stands near a fire in a brick pit on the roof. It crackles in welcome, and as I shiver, he sighs, taking off his black wool dress uniform coat and slipping it over my shoulders. I offer him the beer, and he silently takes it.

 

“Sit by the fire so you don’t freeze to death,” he mutters, and pulls up a lounge chair for me before rummaging through a deck box nearby and producing two fleece blankets. He wraps one around my torso and the other around my legs.

 

“How did you know this was up here?”

 

“When I graduated from the Academy, the admiral brought the seniors here, to the penthouse suite, for a graduation party. Invited all of our parents, girlfriends and boyfriends too.”

 

“That sounds nice,” I say. Peeta examines me over the fire and takes a slow pull on his drink. I was half expecting him to chug down that, too. He licks his lips and seems to be debating something.

 

“Mine didn’t come,” he tells me. I blink and hide behind a drink of my heartbreaker, because while I’m not surprised, I still ache for him. My parents are dead and his don’t care about him. “Don’t feel sorry for me, though, Katniss. I’m doing just fine without them.”

 

“I’m sure you are,” I say and we fall into silence, staring at the flames. Flakes of errant snow drift around us and I am reminded of another night and another fire. How happy and warm and close we were. I glance up at him and watch him swallow another drink. Does he still remember? Or have I tarnished that memory beyond repair for him?

 

“I had hoped that if I ever saw you again, you wouldn’t be…” he trails off and his hand glides through the air as he searches for a word.

 

“Still a whore,” I finish for him. His eyes lock with mine and this time, he doesn’t look away.

 

“I wasn’t going to say that. You can’t tell me that you enjoy it, Katniss. I’ve seen what it does to you.”

 

“Maybe I’ve changed more than you think,” I tease and flip my hair over my shoulder. He laughs, the sound sardonic and biting. It loosens my carefully held resolve.

 

“I don’t think so. Maybe it’s easier to swallow since you’re not struggling to pay the bills. Maybe you even have a say in who your clients are, but I still don’t think this is who you are.” I straighten my spine and glare at him across the flames. He knows nothing about me or my life. How dare he pass judgement on me like that. Fury blinds me to etiquette or anything resembling seduction.

 

“Are we going to fuck or what?” I snarl.

 

“Wow. Still no finesse,” Peeta says, setting his bottle aside and standing. I shrink into my chair as he stalks towards me, the fire casting strange shadows over his features, making him look harsh and dangerous. A creature of shadows and flames, a mutt of the boy I once knew. He braces one hand on the arm of my lounge chair and tugs at the blanket and his coat until they fall open.

 

The sudden exposure to the cold makes me shiver, but not as much as the warm fingertip that traces the swell of my breast, just along the neckline of my dress. Sensation bursts across my nerves, trailing eagerly in the wake of his touch, almost a burn. He hooks his finger beneath the shoulder and tugs the fabric down, revealing more of my skin. I let my eyes drift shut, to let him explore unimpeded, my breath hitching as I feel his lips skim back over where his finger just touched. Then up the column of my throat. His lips breathe life back into my skin. 

 

“Peeta,” I whisper, not even caring that his name drips with longing as it leaves my mouth. He stops, his lips hovering over my chin. I whimper and he growls before shoving himself away from me.

 

“No, Katniss, we’re not going to fuck.” I grip the arms of the chair and flail about for secure footing. “You almost had me fooled. Again. But I can’t do this again.” 

 

“Can’t do what again?”

 

“This. You!” he gestures between us. “You make me believe things that aren’t real. Isn’t that what your job really is? Making your customers believe that you think they’re desirable? Or decent lovers? You sell that act, and I’d be willing to bet all of the others believe it, too. They believe it’s true for a few minutes or an hour, or maybe even longer now that you’re a fancy escort, because they pay you to do it. Well, I never asked you to do that to me. I asked you to maybe be my friend. We didn’t even talk about money. So stupid me thought it was real until you told me it wasn’t. Even then, I still felt something I’d never felt before that night and haven’t felt with anyone else since. And it took me a long time to lick my wounds. So I am not falling for your lies again.”

 

He scrubs his hands over his face and mutters a curse before turning his back on me. His words sting worse than the snowflakes melting on my bare skin.

 

“It wasn’t all lies,” I whisper.

 

He keeps his back to me and picks the beer up again, taking a hefty drink. The blanket is no longer enough to keep me warm. I shiver violently and grip the edges tightly around me to preserve some of the heat. I smile and shrug flippantly, as though this means nothing to me. 

 

“My favorite color really is green.”

 

Peeta shakes his head and shoves one of his hands in his pockets. He has to be cold in nothing but his crisp white dress shirt. Still, he won’t even look at me, and I finally accept that he’s really gone then. The boy with the bread, who became so much more, has already slipped away from me. I cling to the blanket, trying not to do something stupid like cry as I leave him standing there.

 

My skin burns with the heat of the penthouse as I resume my seat at the bar and gulp down the last of my drink and ask for another champagne. While I’m nursing that, Peeta returns, I guess because the cold became too much for him. He takes a seat further down the bar, keeping a good six feet between us. 

 

As the night wears on, feeling returns to my limbs and I discard the blanket, but I keep his jacket. I finger the shiny brass buttons, and stay burrowed in its cavernous warmth. We’re essentially alone in the main room, everyone else having disappeared for what is no doubt the highlight of their evening. Someone has changed the music from the thumping dance tracks of earlier to soft crooning ballads, and yet we don’t approach one another again. He speaks to the bartender the entire time, in quiet rumbles that I can’t make out. Every now and then, the bartender will laugh. 

 

I have no idea how to bridge the chasm I’ve created between us, and Peeta has made it clear that he doesn’t want me to even try. I should go home. I'm useless here, but I can't bring myself to walk away from him again.

 

I want to remind him that I gave him the money back. To tell him that I never wanted it to begin with. That I left him alone in my bed because it’s what was best for him. That everything I did after we danced at the lake was to protect myself, but even that is a lie. I don’t know how to separate out what was real and what was an act for him. The mess of lies I’ve created traps us in silence.

 

Sometime around midnight, I switch to water, but Peeta keeps pounding them back for at least another hour, his cheeks growing more flushed with every passing drink, his movements more loose and clumsy.   
  


“I’m just gonna...bathroo--” he tells the bartender as he stands and stumbles, his hands scrambling for purchase on the bar. I move to his side to help him, but he shrugs me off, eventually manages to get himself upright and across the room towards the bathrooms.

 

“How many did he have?” I ask the bartender.

 

“Nineteen. Maybe Twenty shots. Plus around four beers,” he mutters. “I think. I wasn’t exactly counting. He’s a big guy and a sailor, to boot. Figured he could hold it. Seemed just fine until he tried to stand up.”

 

“After twenty shots of bourbon?” I scoff in disgust and snag one of the servers to get both of our things from the coatroom. A second server to order a taxi for us.

 

When he returns, Peeta puts up a weak protest, but between two completely -- and one mostly -- sober people, we manage to get him into the overcoat. I drape my coat over my arm and then drag his arm over my shoulders, staggering under his weight until one of the servers grabs his other arm. We stumble into the elevator as Peeta starts slurring a song. At first, I think it’s a love song, until I catch the words “sand” and “wind.” Must be a nautical tune he’s picked up in the navy.

 

“Might ‘swell try to catch the wind,” Peeta croons and then sways, collapsing against me. His head droops and he takes a deep breath. “You’re wearing perfume. Or maybe five years is long enough t’change sssssumun’s sense.”

 

The server coughs uncomfortably and stares up at the ceiling of the elevator. My cheeks heat at the intimacy of Peeta’s words. How could he remember my scent?

 

“You still so smell fuckin’ good. Like home,” he moans and shifts violently to look at the server. “We knew eash other in school, ya know? Stupid me had a crush on her for yearz before I even talked to her. Since we were kidz. Can you believe that?”

 

Astonished, I stare at Peeta with my mouth hanging open. We barely knew each other until that night at the lake. Our only real interaction before that had been the day in the rain, when he gave me the bread, but he makes it sound like he’d noticed me long before that. It’s not possible. Why didn’t he say something sooner?

 

“I should be over her by now. Still fuckin hurts, tho.”

 

The bell of the elevator interrupts the tension and the doors slide mercifully open. Together, we drag Peeta out to the curb and get him into the taxi. I shove some money in the server’s hands, grateful that he hasn’t said a word to make things worse, and climb into the back seat with Peeta. His face is smashed against the glass and his eyes are shut as he groans.

 

“Must’ve been a hell of a cruise,” the driver says as he eyes Peeta. “Where to, miss?”

 

“Just a second,” I say, and hand the driver a twenty to buy his patience. “Peeta?”

 

I shake his shoulder and he groans louder, one hand coming up to his hair.

 

“Peeta, where do you live?”

 

“Wha?”

 

“Your address, Peeta. I need to tell the driver where to take us.”

 

“Don’ have one,” he says and licks his chapped lips.

 

“What do you mean you don’t have one?” I ask and he covers his ears and mumbles that I’m shouting too loud. 

 

“Miss, we’re blocking the curb,” the driver says. I turn to him and give him my most winning smile. He blinks, clearly disoriented by it as I lean towards him and place a hand on his arm.

 

“I’ll pay whatever the full fare is if you need to move now. Just drive while I figure this out, please.”

 

“Okay, lady,” he says and faces forward to merge with the traffic on Capitol Avenue. I turn my attention back to Peeta, gently prying his hands away from his ears and brushing my fingers over his shorn hair.

 

“I still need an address to give to the driver,” I coo softly to him.

 

“Told you. Don’ have one,” he says again. “Did’n need one at the ‘cademy. Or while I wuz on the ship. Wuz gonna crash at Marv’s place tonight. Start lookin’ tomorrow.”

 

“Where does Marv live?”

 

“Don’ know.”

 

“Okay,” I say and start searching his pockets for his phone. “Can you call him?”

 

“Can’t,” Peeta says and squirms under my search. He grasps my wrists and pulls my hands up and away from him. The force of it stretches my body out over his, nearly sending us both tumbling to the cab floor. “Yer handsy, Ka-nissssss. I can’t let you do that.”

 

“I’m looking for your phone so I can call your friend.”

 

“He’s back at the Arms, with that leggy brunette. Had nails sharper than ka-nives. Heh. Ka-niss and ka-nives.”

 

My stomach sinks. He’s talking about Clove and the sandy-haired man. I can’t deposit Peeta alone at that guy’s place with maybe a wife or girlfriend or nobody there while Marv himself is wrapped up in bed with Clove back at the hotel.

 

“Jus’ get me a room at the Armz,” he mutters and I huff in frustration.

 

“We’re already in a cab,” I tell him and he looks around, confused. Then his head drops back against the window as though he just can’t hold it up anymore.

 

“Then drop me at the next hotel,” he suggests and closes his eyes.

 

I consider it, for a second, but he’s so drunk that it’s a bad idea to leave him alone anywhere. With a heavy sigh and a silent plea that Johanna never finds out what I’m doing, I give the driver my address and slump back against the seat as he changes directions. The rest of the ride is mostly silent, punctuated only by a soft snore here and there from Peeta.

 

When we reach my building, I overpay the driver and climb out, walk around to his door and open it. He spills from the cab, nearly knocking me to the ground. I grunt and grapple with his arms, trying to get him up enough so that I can at least get his arm over me again. For a moment, I wish I was still wearing my comfortable and flat boots that I used to wear in Twelve rather than four inch heels.

 

“Miss Everdeen?” I glance up at the question and cry out with relief when I spot one of the building’s doormen.

 

“Thom! I’m so glad you’re working tonight. Could you help me?”

 

“Sure thing,” he says, stepping quickly around the cab. He hauls Peeta up to his feet and gives me a questioning glance. The only people who visit my apartment are Johanna and sometimes Cinna, so I can only guess at what Thom is thinking. 

 

Together, we get Peeta inside the building and into the elevator. Down the hallway of the twelfth floor and into my apartment.

 

“Just, um, lay him down on the couch,” I tell Thom. I’ve only got the one bed, and given how sour Peeta’s been with me tonight, I am not generous enough to let him sleep in it. Thom goes one step further, somehow managing to get Peeta’s overcoat off of him again before his body collapses on the cushions, limp and groaning.

 

“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Thom asks and I smile at him, shaking my head before steering him back towards my door.

 

“I don’t think so, Thom. But thank you for your help.” He eyes Peeta again and seems reluctant to leave, though, so I tell him the closest thing to the truth that will maybe set his mind at ease. “I’ve known Peeta since grade school. He’s been out of the country the past year, so he drank a little too much in celebration tonight.”

 

“Oh, okay,” Thom says and tips his hat to me. “Well, goodnight then, Miss Everdeen.”

 

“Goodnight, Thom,” I say and shut the door, heaving a sigh of relief.

 

I walk back over to the couch, pausing between steps to take off my heels. They dangle from my fingertips as I round the couch. I’m surprised to find Peeta awake and watching me, eyes unfocused and wary.

 

“You left without saying a word. Do you have any idea how sick with worry I was when I woke up and you were gone? Still have nightmares about that moment.” 

 

He clenches his eyes shut and groans, writhes on the couch like he’s trying to get up. I find a trash can and place it near his head, but he falls still and quiet. His words pester me as I get a glass of water and some aspirin, setting both on the table next to the couch. My hands shake as I take off his shoes and struggle to get his tie off so it doesn’t choke him in his sleep. With that taken care of, I run my fingers over his hair, trying not to consider how different things might be if I had stayed in my room with him that night.

 

Locking myself in my bedroom, I prepare myself for bed. It doesn’t matter anyways. I didn’t stay. Even if I had, he still would have come here, to District Two and the Naval Academy, and I still would’ve been the whore from District Twelve. I’ve already learned that no matter where I go, this is who I am now, and all the pretty words and loving touches that Peeta could possibly give me will never change that.

 

************************

************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: My gratitude to peetabreadgirl for her superb beta skills. Part Three to be posted soon.The song Peeta sings in the elevator is Catch the Wind by Donovan. Would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter, as always.


	3. Chapter 3

My knuckles whiten as I grip the handle on my bedroom door. I’ve already stalled, taking more time than I necessarily needed to shower, braid my hair, and dress in my favorite jeans and a green chunky knit sweater. I don’t know what sort of mess I’ll be walking into when I open this door, and I want to be as comfortable in my own skin as possible before facing Peeta. After a night spent lost in nightmares of my mother, distant and wandering in her drug induced numbness, I tremble, preparing myself for hostility or disappointment. He might already be gone.

 

With a deep breath, I banish that thought and push the door open, lift my chin high. His shoes are still by my couch where I left them, and I hear water running in my kitchen. I move silently towards the source, my shoulders relaxing as the tension leaves my body. The physical acknowledgment that I’d been expecting him to disappear out of my life without a word as I’d once done to him. The relief that he didn’t.

 

Peeta stands with a hand braced on my kitchen counter, the other hand cupped beneath the stream of water. As it fills, he splashes the liquid over his face, runs his damp hand over his hair and repeats the motion. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to just below his elbows and one section of his shirt tails has come free of his pants, but he is otherwise dressed the same as he was when I left him. 

 

“Good morning,” I manage to say and Peeta halts his motions. I prepare myself for his anger as, with a sigh, he shakes water droplets from his hand and turns off the faucet. After grabbing a nearby kitchen towel to pat his face dry, he stands tall and faces me. He’s a little pale and the skin around his eyes and mouth is drawn, but otherwise I’d never guess that he went on a bender the night before. His blue eyes take in my appearance and he nods, as though convincing himself of something.

 

“I half expected it all to be a dream,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Just tell me where I am and I’ll call a cab. Be out of your life in no time.”

 

I cross my arms over my chest to hold in the sinking feeling at the thought of him leaving so soon. My shoulders lift in a shrug and I try to smile. I should want him to go. He’s nothing but a pending disaster. Last night proved that. But my first reaction is to hold on to him for a little bit longer.

 

“Where would you go? You need to shower and change before you can start looking for a place to live. And none of the hotels will let you a room for another five hours.”

 

“I’m not an idiot, Katniss. I know all of that. But I do have people I could turn to for help.”

 

“So why didn’t you call them last night?” I ask brazenly. His stunned silence speaks volumes. I think of the boy who once told me he had people he knew, not friends. “I have a shower. And food for breakfast.” Peeta’s eyebrow lifts as he stares at me. I squirm a little under his scrutiny. 

 

“I left my bags with the staff at the Panem Arms,” he says and I roll my eyes at him.

 

“That’s a pathetic excuse,” I tell him, retrieving my phone from my back pocket. I dial the Panem Arms and sweetly speak to the concierge, giving them my address and instructions for a car to send over Peeta’s things, charged to the bachelor party. Darius can pay for it, I really don’t give a fuck.

 

“Done,” I say triumphantly as I hang up. Peeta’s staring at me like I have two heads, though. “If you wanted to get started on that shower, the bathroom is through there. Your things should be here by the time you’re finished.”

 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks.

 

“Are you turning down a hot shower and breakfast?” I ask instead as I step around him and open my fridge, perusing my options. When he doesn’t answer me, I blurt out something stupid. “You just got back from more than a year at sea and as far as I could tell, no one bothered to give you a proper welcome home. A shower and breakfast might not be much, but it’s the least I can do.”

 

_ Especially after all you’ve done for me. _

 

“Thank you, Katniss,” he says after I’ve counted to thirty and started to believe that maybe he really does hate me. But his voice is soft and stirs memories of firelight, and a dance and a kiss that never should’ve been. When I look over my shoulder, though, he’s already halfway to my bedroom. I bite my thumb nail and push aside the memories so I can concentrate on making a decent breakfast.

 

I was correct about the Arms’ prompt service as not even ten minutes later, while I’ve got omelettes cooking in the pan and bread ready to toast, my bell rings. Turning the heat down so the food doesn’t burn, I hurry to answer.

 

“Where shall I put these, ma’am?” I recognize the blue sportcoat with the Panem Arms crest, the uniform of the hotel lobby staff, and smile gratefully.

 

“In the bedroom, through there,” I direct him. He hauls in one khaki duffle bag, one messenger style bag, and one matching garment bag, all three with the name  _ P. Mellark, ENS _ stamped on the sides in black ink, placing them neatly on the foot of my bed before bidding me a good morning, accepting my tip, and whisking back out the door.

 

I marvel at the efficiency that Darius’ money can buy and consider unpacking for Peeta, but instead, I knock on my bathroom door and tell him that his bags are on the bed and breakfast is almost ready. Shutting the bedroom door to give him some privacy, I hustle back out to the kitchen. Now my phone is ringing. I cringe at the name on the caller ID. I’m going to have to think fast to avoid a lecture.

 

“Morning, Jo,” I say as I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can keep cooking.

 

“Where’d you go?” She skips the greetings.

 

“Sailor got pretty shit-faced, so I put him in a cab and then I went home. There was no reason for me to stick around; the rest of you were all occupied.”

 

“Well that’s disappointing,” Jo mutters. “Unless there’s a chance he’d hire you for a second date.”

 

“I seriously doubt it. He doesn’t seem to be the type for that,” I say as I glance towards my bedroom door. Still no sign of Peeta. 

 

“Damn. I was hoping for some delicious details on him. You know I like broad and stocky.” I ignore Jo’s crass comments and redirect the conversation to something I can handle.

 

“You like everything as long as it can fuck. Speaking of, how was your night?”

 

“Handcuffs was surprisingly adventurous. I’ve got kinks in places I didn’t know could kink. Not sure if I envy or pity his bride,” Jo laughs and I try to laugh with her, but really, I’m just grateful we swapped. I’ll get paid and didn’t have to contort myself. “You wanna meet up for an early dinner later on?”

 

“Not tonight,” I tell her. It’s my first Saturday night off in ages and I honestly just want to curl up on my couch and maybe read. It’s been so long since I’ve done something simple like that.

 

“You have someone tonight?”

 

_ Not yet _ . My own thoughts startle me. I’m not seriously considering trying to keep Peeta around  _ that  _ long, am I? He probably doesn’t want to, anyway, I remind myself.

 

“Just a little worn out,” I tell Johanna instead. “Figured I’d spend the day and night relaxing.”

 

“Alright, Kat. I’ve got to settle accounts here and then head home for a shower and a serious power nap. Call you tomorrow.”

 

After hanging up with Jo, I’m able to devote my full efforts to breakfast with no more interruptions. I’ve buttered the toast, poured the juice, and set the table when my phone chimes. My eyes bulge at the amount deposited in my account this morning, feeling slightly guilty that Peeta didn’t get his friends’ monies worth, but then he emerges from my room, looking refreshed and dressed in jeans and a plain grey t-shirt that barely contains his shoulders, like he got it a year or two ago and bulked up since it’s purchase. I guess that’s the curse of living in a uniform. I blush stupidly and focus on serving the meal.

 

“Hope you like omelettes,” I say and motion for him to take a seat.

 

“Katniss,” he says, and I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for the blow. I know I deserve it. He barely scratched the surface last night. “I owe you an apology.”

 

My eyes fly open as I stare at him. An apology was the last thing I was expecting from him this morning. But he looks so upset and so much like the boy who just wanted to talk with someone on a cold winter night after his mother hit him that my heart cracks a little. He sighs and scrubs the back of his neck, up over his hair and then drops his hand so it smacks against his thigh.

 

“I acted like an ass last night, and you didn’t deserve it. Seeing you again was completely unexpected and as I said yesterday, I’d sort of been imagining you free of this life for the past five years. I thought maybe that was why you left Twelve without a word. To start over.”

 

It was why I left Twelve. Things just didn't work out for me. I want to tell him that, but my tongue has stuck to the roof of my mouth. Glued there with the shame of just how low I sunk during my time in Seven. I pull out my chair and sit down heavily. He grips the back of the one reserved for him and looks at his sock covered toes. His jaw clenches a moment, making me think he might regret his apology already but then he keeps talking.

 

“I see now that it was foolish, naive, and maybe a little cowardly of me to believe that. And to judge you for it last night when I don’t know a thing that’s happened to you in the past five years...well it was wrong of me. And I’m sorry. On top of that, I let everything that happened out at sea get to me and tried to drown it all in alcohol. That doesn’t excuse the way I behaved towards you, though. Especially since I put you in the position of having to take care of me. I should never have done that to you.”

 

“Peeta, sit down and eat your breakfast,” I whisper. He lifts his gaze to mine and blinks. “Before it gets cold.”

 

The chair scrapes on the floor as he pulls it out and sits, never breaking eye contact with me, like an animal not quite sure if he’s prey or if he’s safe. I cut into my omelette, motioning with my fork to encourage Peeta to do the same. He does and after the first hesitant bite, eats with relish. I duck my head to hide my pleased smile. I should apologize as well, for so many things, but now that he’s acting more like the boy I remember, I can’t bring myself to remind him of the awful things I’ve done to him in the past.

 

He takes a first sip of tea and stares into the cup before looking up at me again, confusion knitting his brow. I focus on my toast so he doesn’t mention the fact that I remember how he takes his tea, but when I hazard a glance back up at him, he’s smiling. The sight of that bright expression releases a torrent of memories and happy feelings.

 

“Is yours peppermint?” he asks quietly and the smile that was threatening my lips breaks free. He remembers too, and for some reason, that means everything.

 

“It is,” I admit. Peeta sets his cup down with finality and takes a deep breath while I hope that I haven’t already managed to drive him away.

 

“You know, Katniss, I could still use that friend,” he says quietly. “So if you can not look at me like some kind of wounded freak of nature, then maybe I can stop acting like one around you. And we’d have a real shot at it this time.”

 

“At being friends?” I ask, and he nods. Warmth flares to life inside of me, soothing as I admit that I could probably use a friend, too. Just like that night at the lake. I search for a trace of malice or the anger I saw in him last night, and finding none, manage a perfunctory nod. “Alright. Then I guess I won’t charge you for the use of my soap.”

 

Peeta laughs and shakes his head, but shovels more of the omelette into his mouth. He chews thoughtfully as silence falls. I’m scrambling for something to talk about. Home is out. Too many painful memories for both of us are associated with Twelve, and now that we’re being civil again, I really don’t want to remind him of our past there. My job is definitely out for obvious reasons, and given what he’s said so far about his parents skipping his graduation and this morning about whatever happened during his time at sea getting to him, I’m guessing the navy is also an off limits discussion as well. Although it’s probably safer than what I really want to ask, which is how he got mixed up with characters like Darius and Marv, who’ve clearly never touched a military uniform and don’t share his ideals. But that’ll just lead us back to my job and no way am I doing that yet. Thankfully, Peeta pulls us out of this conundrum just as I’m about to give it up as a lost cause.

 

“Thanks for that, by the way.”

 

“For what?” I ask, a little annoyed that he keeps thanking and apologizing. It sets me on edge.

 

“For the shower,” he says. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to take one without rubbing up against the walls and wondering if I’ll need to spray myself down for fungal infections later on. Showers on a ship aren’t exactly spacious. And we share.”

 

I wrinkle my nose at this, but I can’t help picturing him with a sour expression and jumping every time his bare ass rubs against a cold metal shower wall. The laugh starts in my throat as a snort and finally works its way up and escapes. After that, we finish the meal with scattered conversation, uncertain at first but growing in familiarity as the time passes. We touch on trivial things, mainly. He tells me a little about his time at the Academy and what his brothers are up to. I hedge around my time here and use it instead to shift the focus to where he plans on looking for an apartment.

 

“Officially, I’ve got the next four weeks off for R&R, so I’m not too pressed for time,” he says as he picks up both our empty plates and carries them into the kitchen. Before I can protest, he starts washing everything, his hands moving swiftly, oblivious to the scalding water that pours from the faucet as he works.

 

I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what he said in the elevator last night. About having a crush on me for years. Since he doesn’t bring it up, though, I’m wondering if he’s forgotten that part. Or doesn’t want to talk about it. Either way, I leave it untouched as well.

 

“Any ideas where you’ll start looking?” I ask him.

 

“Not really. We didn’t get much free time to explore the city as cadets. They didn’t want us getting into trouble.”

 

“There’s a chastity belt joke in there somewhere,” I tease and Peeta’s ears turn pink, but he makes a sound that resembles a laugh before he stops himself. As he ducks his head, I remember that we were each other’s first kiss. First mutually given orgasm. Except Peeta doesn’t know that he was my first on either and suddenly, I’m the one blushing furiously and squirming uncomfortably.

 

“I was thinking somewhere near West End. It’s far enough from the shipyards to sort of separate myself from that at the end of the day, but not so far that the commute will be a pain.”

 

“No good,” I tell him. “The place is crawling with hip nightclubs and burlesque shows now, so unless you plan on becoming nocturnal, I suggest somewhere else.”

 

“Okay, what do you suggest?” 

 

“Um, around here is good. The Hill is a nice, quiet neighborhood. And close to the park is great since there aren’t many trees in the heart of the city otherwise. There’s also midtown. They’ve done an amazing job reviving that area. Lots of coffee shops and cozy bookstores and even a few art galleries. I don’t know what a sailor earns, but it’s fairly affordable, I think…” I trail off as Peeta places the last dish in the rack and dries his hands. 

 

“Thanks. Is there a public phone I can use downstairs?” He shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back against my kitchen counter.

 

“You don’t have a phone?”

 

“It’s not charged,” he explains with a shrug. “Hadn’t used it in over a year until last night. What juice it had left in it, I used to call Darius to let him know I’d be late.”

 

“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Well you can use mine while yours is charging.”

 

“You’ve already done more than enough, Katniss” Peeta says, and I would usually take offense, but he’s smiling warmly at me.

 

“Friend,” I taunt him with the single word and he laughs. But he accepts my phone as I retreat into my bedroom to give him some privacy. Both of his bags are closed, a fleece jacket draped over the corner of my bed and a pair of brown shoes ready to go. He’s been prepared to bolt as soon as he’d finished breakfast. I need a distraction.

 

Wandering over to my bookshelf, I skim the spines looking for something to read. Books are a luxury, something I would buy here and there for myself when I’d worked long and hard and gotten ahead not only on the bills but also in saving up for a future when I’d no longer draw customers. Not that that’s necessarily anytime soon. Cashmere is well into her thirties, but since she’s invested money (or maybe Brutus has) in her appearance, she can still pass for late twenties. Still, I guess in a small way, each purchased book was a sweet scented reminder that I wouldn’t be doing this job forever.

 

I finally pick one, a silly story told from the point of view of forest animals, but the artwork on the cover was so beautiful, it drew me in and I purchased it without much attention to the synopsis printed on the back cover. Stretching out on my bed, I start reading, and surprisingly, end up engrossed in the story after just a couple chapters. A soft knock on my door draws my attention up to Peeta who smiles at me.

 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “I’ve found a couple options. Gonna head out and take a look. Is it okay if I leave my bags here? It’s still a little early to check into a hotel.”

 

I glance at the clock, astonished to see that I’ve read for a few hours. It’s mid-day already. On cue, my stomach growls.

 

“Did you have lunch plans?” I ask Peeta.

 

************************

 

There’s a strange sort of freedom to be found in wandering around the city in something that Kat would never wear. It took me a few minutes of digging in my closet before I finally found a pair of ankle high hiking boots. I’d bought them last year, thinking I might try to pick up some of the things I used to enjoy when I was a girl, now that I had money. But the shoes were shoved into the recesses of luxury and purchased sex, forgotten until today. They’re stiff, but still toasty and comforting. I feel stable for once, not teetering on heels and waiting for the next strong breeze to blow me over or lift up my skirt. No, I am warm. Even with the unfiltered sting of the winter wind biting my makeup-free cheeks.

 

We stop at a food truck selling hot wraps filled with grilled meat and savory sauces that bring the tang of a far flung land. Peeta describes the place to me, warm sandy beaches, lush florals and thick vegetation. A crystalline blue sea that reveals its depths rather than hiding them in the silt and muck of our own native shores. His words paint a picture so vivid, I can almost taste the salt and spice breezes, feel the sun on my cheeks. 

 

The man running the truck grins at Peeta and strikes up a conversation about his homeland. They swap stories as we eat and before we leave, he presses a dessert and cups of warm tea into our hands, insisting that it is on the house. A gift in appreciation for good conversation and fond memories of his home. I flounder with the gift, but Peeta graciously thanks the man in his own language, surprising me enough to follow behind him in silence as we leave the truck.

 

The dessert is just as delicious as the main course, the cinnamon and nutmeg spice exploding on my tongue as the puffed pastry melts.

 

“Do you like it?” Peeta asks.

 

“It’s incredible. Have you really been there?” I say as I swipe at a few crumbs around my mouth. He smiles and reaches out, his thumb running over my skin, just below my lower lip. The caress makes me freeze, and for a second, we don’t move. I stare at his eyes while he stares at my mouth. The longer he stares, the more my stomach sinks into a pit. But then he looks back up at my eyes, his expression unfathomable as his thumb curves back over my lip.

 

“I’ve been a lot of places, Katniss. One of the perks of working on a ship.”

 

“Must be nice,” I murmur as his hand falls away from me.

 

“Sometimes,” he says and resumes walking. I scurry to catch him, but as I pull up beside him, he slows his gait so I don’t have to struggle to keep up. “Other times, it can feel...isolating.”

 

“Don’t tell me you miss this place when you’re gone,” I say. Surprisingly, Peeta shrugs. “Do you miss  _ Twelve _ ?”

 

“Not the places per se. It’s not Twelve or Two or Four that I miss when I’m gone.” His words don’t make any sense to me, so I sip my tea in silence as we keep walking. Peeta checks his watch and halts on a street corner. “I’m headed east. Your place is north from here, right?”

 

So that’s it then, I think as I nod. A few bitter words. An apology. A few favors for an old friend. A couple meals and now he’ll disappear again. I tell myself it’s better that way, crumbling up the wrapper for my dessert and tossing it into a nearby trash can.

 

“Do you want me to call before I come back for my bags? Or should I just have whatever hotel I’m staying at come get them?” 

 

I blink stupidly at him and finally register what he’s really asking. Two questions about logistics with a hundred emotional layers and implications, emphasized by the slight sadness I see seeping into his blue eyes the longer I stay silent. 

 

_ Would you want to see me again? Are you occupied with work tonight? Are we really going to try being friends? The hooker and the sailor? Or was this all just a way to maintain some sort of civility between two people who once sort of knew each other well? _

 

My hand gropes around in my coat pocket, fingers closing around my phone before I pull it free. With a few swipes, I open up a new contact and hand it to him, surprised when I see his phone open and ready as well, extended to me. We trade and I tease him about his ancient phone as I type in my name and number. He glares at me, but the tick at the corner of his mouth belies his anger.

 

“Alright, well, I guess I have a new home to find,” he says as we trade back.

 

“Yeah,” I say, slipping my phone into my pocket and rocking on my toes as we stand there, neither of us making a move to leave. A car horn honks a few feet away from us, making us both jump and Peeta tries to run a hand through hair that isn’t there anymore, instead awkwardly petting his own head as I point in the wrong direction and we both mumble farewells.

 

As he begins moving, I practically sprint back towards my apartment, my cheeks numb and my lungs aching by the time I finally reach my place. I shut my door and lean against it, wondering how in the hell I ended up here, with my heart thudding painfully in my chest, Peeta Mellark’s number in my phone, and the hope that I’ll see him again ringing in my head. That the next time I do see him and every time after, it’ll be more like this morning and less like all our previous interactions. Four weeks off, he said. So much can happen in four weeks.

 

************************

 

It’s past dinner when I finish my book. I stretch lazily and stare out the window at the fading light. Snowflakes drift across my window. The now cold remnants of my dinner and tea sit on my nightstand. It’s been the best day I’ve had in so long. Quiet, relaxing. No expectations. And all for me.

 

I gather the dishes and head into the kitchen, a quick look at the clock shows that it’s even later than I expected. Setting the dishes in my sink, I pull out my phone and bring up Peeta’s number. I haven’t heard from him since we parted ways on the street earlier. He could be lost or gotten attacked and robbed. Or hurt or maybe he jumped back on a ship and vanished out to sea again. 

 

My hand flexes in the air over his name as I practically lecture myself. His bags are still sitting on my bed, exactly where he left them this morning, minus the fleece jacket and shoes that he’s wearing now. But that jacket won’t be enough once the sun sets fully.

 

I dial his number and hold the phone up to my ear.

 

“Hello?” He answers on the third ring.

 

“Hey,” I say. “It’s Katniss. How’s the house hunting going?”

 

“Not that great, actually,” he says, his voice fading a little as though he’s turning his head, and the sound of city traffic muffles his words. “I had to hire an agent to help me. I’ve got an appointment to meet with her tomorrow morning.”

 

“Where are you?” I ask.

 

“I just finished grabbing something to eat. Actually, I was about to call you and let you know I was on my way to get my things. I’m not keeping you from anything important, am I?”

 

He’s the homeless one and he’s worried about messing with my schedule.

 

“No, nothing important,” I tell him. “Just starting to think you’d found a place and forgotten to call me.”

 

“Katniss, you have every last pair of clean socks that I own right now,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice.

 

“Right,” I say, foolishly looking again at his luggage. And probably every clean pair of underwear he owns, too... I speak again, a little breathlessly this time to hide my intimate thoughts of him. “So I’ll see you soon?”

 

“Yep. I’m about a block away now,” he says. We hang up and I busy myself with cleaning up my dinner mess. I’ve just finished when he knocks on the door.

 

“Hey,” I greet him.

 

“Hey,” he answers, faltering on the threshold and making me laugh.

 

“Come on in,” I tell him with a wave. “I’m not gonna hold your socks for ransom.”

 

“You should consider it. They have a tendency to get lost in ship laundry so I know plenty of people who’d be willing to pay well for a few,” he says, his face relaxing at my teasing.

 

“I’m not that desperate,” I tease back, and he winces.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Katniss. That was a really insensitive thing for me to say.”

 

“Peeta, it’s okay,” I reassure, laying a hand on his arm and waving the other one around my place to remind him that I’m not starving and struggling anymore. “I’m the one who brought up the idea of holding your socks hostage, not you.”

 

“Still,” he says, hustling past me to the bedroom and grabbing his things. “I’ll just get going now and try to pry my feet from my mouth later.”

 

“Where are you staying?” I ask, crossing my arms and halfway blocking his exit. He shuffles to a halt in front of me, adjusting the strap of his duffle on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t know yet,” he says quietly. “The handful of places I’ve called so far are already booked for the night. I’ll find something, though.”

 

“What about your friends?” I pry as gently as possible.

 

“I’ve got a few I can call if the hotels don’t pan out,” he says, face scrunched a little. 

 

I don’t like the idea of him wandering around the city looking for a hotel with a vacant room. It’s cold and getting late. The snow’s starting to pick up; I can see fat flakes illuminated in the streetlights outside and not much else through my living room window.

 

“Am I one of those friends?” I ask quietly, digging my nails into my biceps as Peeta’s eyes dart over my face and between my own eyes. I try not to blink.

 

“I think I’ve taken enough of your hospitality, don’t you?” His words are so quiet, I lean towards him, even though I heard him just fine. What is it about him that makes me unable to look away? I want to tell him that when my nightmares woke me last night, I almost came out to the living room, to seek the comfort I’d once found sleeping in his arms. That I want him to stay, although for the life of me, I can’t articulate why. He’s still just as dangerous to me, with his kindness and the way he treats me more like a girl he could be friends or lovers with than the whore that I am.

 

“I don’t mind,” I say instead. “I know my couch isn’t exactly one of the beds in the Panem Arms, but--”

 

“I can’t afford the Arms on my salary,” he says with a strange smile. “And I guarantee that your couch is more comfortable than my onboard berth.”

 

“Come on, then,” I nudge his arm with my elbow as I walk by him towards my room. We store his luggage back in my bedroom, hanging his garment bag up in my closet this time. I tug on the zipper and smile at him. “What’s in here?”

 

“Uniforms,” he explains, wide eyes slowly sweeping over the rows of rich fabrics and the heels on a rack in one corner. I’m not wealthy, but I do well for myself, and it suddenly seems ridiculous. A closet full of expensive clothes I don’t really need. Would never own if I weren’t a paid escort. I tug on the zipper of his garment bag again.

 

“I thought that’s what you were wearing last night,” I say, drawing Peeta’s attention away from the excess of my wardrobe.

 

“I was wearing  _ a _ uniform,” he says, standing next to me and yanking the zipper down all the way. He tugs aside the canvas and shows me, ticking them off as he shifts each hanger inside. “White dress uniform, formal uniform, blues for hard labor are in the duffle, two sets of khakis for -- okay that one’s hard to explain other than it’s for general duties -- and last night I was wearing black dress. Which one we wear depends on the function.”

 

“Sounds excessive.” 

 

“Probably,” he says with a smile, but his eyes flick over my silks and I bite my tongue. 

 

“Let’s get the couch set up.”

 

Flipping the closet light off, I lead him back out into the living room. Once we’ve got pillows and blankets piled on the couch for him to use later tonight, I make us hot chocolate while Peeta answers my questions about his home hunting. We sit on the couch and sip the comforting drink as we sort through his options and plan out his search for tomorrow.

 

My eyes begin to droop at one point, and I doze a few times before the sounds of Peeta cleaning up the hot chocolate finally wakes me enough to move. I stand and fluff the pillows, shake out the blankets to fix the couch into a bed. When he emerges from the kitchen again, my gaze rakes over him without my permission. He’s already changed into coarse blue linen pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt.

 

“Thanks,” he says, nodding towards the makeshift bed. But I don’t know what to say. I’ve fucked a stupid number of men, something that is so often labeled as intimate. An act that surpasses all other forms of closeness, but this...Peeta in his bare feet and pajamas, about to spend the night in my apartment, is something I’ve never experienced with any man. He’s the only man I’ve actually  _ slept _ with and this small reminder of that has rendered me mute and dumb.

 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he says with such uncertainty that it’s more of a question than a statement.

 

“Yeah,” I finally manage. “See you in the morning.”

 

With a last look at him in his sleep clothes, I flee into the safety of my room to prepare for bed. But before I climb in, I crack the door open to my room. I stand there and listen to the sounds of Peeta getting settled on my couch. I consider locking it again, as I did last night, but eventually I close it and leave it unlocked. After all, access to the only bathroom in the apartment is through my bedroom.

 

The shifting of bodies in cotton sheets is the only sound to be heard until the heater kicks on with a soft  _ whoosh _ . My eyes hone in on the window, my curtains split open enough for me to watch the snow drifting to the ground. I’ve never thought of it as beautiful before, although I know many people find it so. I have too many memories tied to its darker side. Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I flip onto my other side to stare instead at the door and punch my pillow a few times for good measure.

 

************************

 

The realty agent meets with Peeta for twenty minutes on Sunday morning, just long enough to gather a bit of information on him and schedule another appointment the following day for actually viewing the places. When he tells me, I expect his next words to be that he’s found a hotel room and thanks for all my help, but he surprises me.

 

“You know, I’ve never been ice skating,” he says, head tilted and lips twitching in mischief.

 

“I haven’t been in years,” I admit.

 

“I saw this rink yesterday while I was fruitlessly wandering around the city. Did you know half the landlords in this place won’t even let you past the door unless you’ve got a realty agent?”

 

“No, I didn’t know that,” trying to remember how I got my place without one. Then, I remember. Plutarch.

 

“Guess you got lucky,” he says as he pulls out his fleece jacket and pulls it on. “Well come on. We’re going skating.”

 

“You can skate,” I tell him and tug on my own boots and coat. “I’ll laugh.”

 

“Har-dee-har-har. I’ve still got my sea legs, Everdeen.”

 

“The ice doesn’t roll, Sailor,” I tease him and wrap my scarf around my neck before draping an extra one I have around his neck. He seems a little surprised by it, but I head out the door before he can comment.

 

We make perfect fools of ourselves, and as much as my ass hurts from falling, by the time we find a bench and order some food from the rink side snack bar, my cheeks hurt just as much from smiling and laughing. I’m out of practice but it was still incredibly fun.

 

“I think you might’ve done better if the ice did have waves,” I say, laughing as Peeta rubs his no doubt smarting rear once more before joining me on the bench with his steaming bowl of stew.

 

“So what’s your excuse?” 

 

“Did I mention that it’s been  _ years _ ?” I ask and he chuckles, blowing on a spoonful of stew to cool it. His cheeks and ears glow pink with the cold and the exercise, but I am stuck on his pursed lips. While he’s always been handsome, the five years have been good to him. Jo is right, there’s no way someone hasn’t experienced what Peeta has to offer in the bedroom. That thought churns my innards, though, so I talk to fill the void.

 

“We used to go skating on the lake. My Dad and my sister and me.” Peeta swallows the bite in his mouth and sets the spoon down before reaching out and resting his hand over mine. His hands are red and raw from the cold as he didn’t wear any gloves. “Prim wasn’t very good at it. But swimming -- we’d call her a little duck because she’d just sort of glide through and then would float on top, so serene.”

 

“What about you?” Peeta asks quietly. 

 

“Dad called me his Snowflake. Because I never lost a snowball fight. Could skate circles around them all, which wasn’t saying much but still. And I could find a deer even in the dead of winter. And he said there was no one else in the world like me.”

 

I bend my head and focus on my stew, angry at myself for ruining this day with memories.

 

“He’s right about that last part,” Peeta murmurs. I try to brush it off, but there’s a part of my mind that melts at his words. He’s actually seen a good bit of the world by now. When I risk a glance back up at him, he’s giving me a careful smile. “The rest is debatable.”

 

“Watch it or I might challenge you to a snowball fight next.”

 

“My ego may not be able to take another defeat after you skated circles around me today.” 

 

His tone is light and teasing and there’s laughter in his eyes. I scrunch my nose at him and shove his knee with my foot. Peeta just laughs and eats his stew.

 

**************************

 

When I wake the next morning, I’m still sore. I’m no stranger to waking up with stiff muscles, but this is a pleasant ache. I stretch in my bed, hugging my pillow to my body. On my nightstand, my phone buzzes and I check the screen. JOB OFFER flashes at me and I swipe to open the application the firm uses for bookings, payments, and customer reviews. Plutarch is all about running an efficient business.

 

The job is straightforward. A theater date and schmoozing with the client’s boss. The option for the full package, i.e. sex afterwards, is left unchecked. It’s not unusual for this to be the case. Clients rarely want to shell out the money for the whole package up front, not until they meet us face to face. So Plutarch decided at some point in the game to leave the jobs open to adjustment. I can always decline the change if the guy gives me the creeps, but it’s frowned upon.

 

It’s for tonight, though, and even though I haven’t worked since the bachelor party, I can afford to go a little longer between jobs. Realistically, I can hold out until next Wednesday, but it’s not a good idea to decline offers on a regular basis. Plutarch keeps track of those kinds of things. Still, I’ve enjoyed my time off more than I was expecting to.

 

When I hear my front door open and shut, I set aside my phone and walk out into the living area. More sounds lead me into the kitchen. I cross my arms and watch as Peeta stands next to my sink, gulping down a glass of water. He’s dressed in athletic wear, running shoes and pants, and a long sleeve shirt that’s dappled with sweat. A knit cap discarded on the counter. He sets aside the empty water glass and drops to the floor in an oddly fluid motion that tells me he’s done this many times before, immediately starting into a set of push-ups. The exercise is repetitive with it’s own cadence. A metallic  _ clank _ each time he drops towards the floor followed by a forcefully puffed out exhale as he pushes himself back up. 

 

There’s something mesmerizing in his rhythmic motions, almost hypnotic in it’s steady beat. He’s always been athletic. I remember seeing him as kids, when I worked in Rooba’s deli just down the street from his parents’ bakery. On Saturday mornings, trucks loaded with grains and milled flours from District 9 would arrive early in the mornings. Even at that age, Peeta could heft hundred pound sacks of flour onto his shoulder as though they weighed nothing. And I’ve seen him take down more than one opponent who had a size advantage in wrestling. Peeta’s always been strong.

 

I’m so caught in memories that he startles me when he bends one knee and braces his foot before standing upright. He’s breathing heavy as he refills the water glass and gulps that down, too. I clear my throat as he sets the empty glass in the sink and he whirls around to face me, the glass clattering as his movements knock it over, but there’s no tell-tale shattering.

 

“Shit, Katniss!” he mutters as he fumbles to get the glass back upright. “You startled me.”

 

“Are you always this jumpy in the mornings?” 

 

“Only when someone sneaks up on me,” he says. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

 

“No,” I tell him and finally enter the kitchen. He steps aside to make room for me.

 

“How long have you been standing there?” he asks, running his hand over his cropped short hair again. The movement pulls his shirt up a little, the faint metal  _ clank _ drawing my eyes to his chest where a set of dog tags hangs. Feeling bold, I loop the chain around my finger and lift them off his heaving chest.

 

“Not that long,” I lie. “Do you really need to wear these when you’re not on duty, Sailor?”

 

His already flushed cheeks darken as he grabs them and tucks them back under his shirt.

 

“Habit at this point,” he admits. “At least let me make breakfast. Pay for groceries, something. I feel like a mooch.”

 

“Sounds good,” I flip my hair over my shoulder and saunter to the table. “I mean you’ve been here mooching off of me for soooooo long now, it’s about damn time you started pulling your weight.”

 

He smiles and sort of laughs, but washes his hands and sets in to preparing a breakfast for us without preamble. While he works, we talk about his apartment hunting, still the safest subject we probably have right now.

 

“So what are your plans for today?” he asks as he sets our steaming bowls of oatmeal topped with fresh fruit and a sprinkling of cinnamon on the table. It looks divine, almost enough to distract me from the loaded question he’s just asked me. I still haven’t responded to that job offer. I should answer. If I decide not to take it, I need to release it so one of the other girls can. Uncertain what to do, I shrug in response to Peeta’s question.

 

“Would you come with me?” he asks quietly.

 

“You want me to go house hunting with you?”

 

“I am not ashamed to admit that this realty agent kinda terrifies me. She’s enthusiastic, but she’s also got this grim sort of determination about her, you know?”

 

“Are you afraid she might bully you into a place you can’t afford?” I ask teasingly.

 

“Petrified,” he admits with wide eyes. “Plus, you know the city pretty well. I trust you to give me the down-sides to each neighborhood without glossing it over or hiding things for the sake of a sale.”

 

Trust.

 

It’s such a simple word and yet he throws it into our conversation like it’s nothing. No big deal. A given. He trusts me. Granted it’s about my opinion of the city, but for some reason, the earnest look he’s giving me right now flutters deep inside me and kindles into a tiny flame.

 

“Sure,” I say. His entire face lights like the sun when he smiles at me and the delicious meal he’s made for us settles warm and fulfilling in my stomach. While Peeta’s in the shower, I decline the job offer. There will be others, anyways.

 

************************

 

From the start, Effie Trinket steals my breath away. And not in a good way. She’s dressed in a frosted lace dress with a fur stole over her shoulders. Her pale makeup rivals any Snow Queen’s, and her strawberry blonde hair is dressed in a poof and studded with sparkling snowflakes. And I thought  _ my  _ wardrobe was excessive. Effie has an itinerary plotted for us the second we walk through the door to her office and spends the drive in her company car berating the driver for being thirty seconds late. Apparently, this missing thirty seconds of our time together could have disastrous consequences on our excursion.

 

“I have traffic timed to a tee, young man. Your tardiness could very well disrupt my client’s schedule,” she sniffs primly at him. He mumbles an apology and offers to take a different route to mollify Effie, but this only causes her eyes to bug out of her head as she then informs him that the construction along that route would be even more detrimental to our timing. I sit back in my seat and try not to hope she has a coronary. It’s not very charitable thinking on my part. I’ve only just met the woman.

 

The first apartment we view offers Peeta caviar and champagne. His eyes dart to me nervously, as though looking for confirmation that this was acceptable, even as Effie lifts the glass and toasts the landlord before delicately taking a sip. I shrug and follow suit, but I’m guessing Peeta’s thinking the same thing I am. No way in hell he can afford this place.

 

The pattern is set, despite Peeta’s subtle hints at each stop. Three hours later, we’ve hit every one of the places on Effie’s list. I’m expecting her wrath or frustration at our lack of enthusiasm as we climb back into the company car, but she’s surprisingly bubbly.

 

“Oh you are a pro at this, my dear, I can tell,” she reaches out and pats Peeta on the cheek. “I can just smell the deals they’ll be cooking up to entice you back. Never accept the first option they offer to you.”

 

I gape at Effie as she powders her nose -- do people still actually do that? Apparently they do. But to hear her tell it, Peeta’s just angling for a bargain and not keeping a tight lid on his annoyance. He has to be annoyed; we didn’t look at a single place he could actually rent. What’s an unmarried Ensign in the navy going to do with a four bedroom flat complete with gourmet kitchen and a hot tub on the balcony?

 

Never mind. I don’t want to even  _ think _ about what he’d be able to do with such a swanky place. I’ve been to one too many festivals of debauchery at bachelor pads, all funded by Daddy. But Peeta’s dad doesn’t have a lot of money. Not after raising six sons and running a struggling bakery in District Twelve.

 

I reach out and brush my fingers over Peeta’s, uncertain how he’ll accept the touch. He turns away from Effie’s chatter about how she’s already booked for tomorrow, but she can have another round mocked out for us for Tuesday, if that is amenable to us, of course. He smiles at me with just his lips, turns his hand and twines our fingers together. It feels good to have our hands joined in real friendship and solidarity, and it occurs to me, that I’ve never just held hands with someone like this. I’ve lived my intimate life all backwards.

 

But Peeta doesn’t seem to care. He squeezes my hand and keeps his eyes on me even as he schedules a follow up appointment with Effie.

 

************************

 

“Do you ever sleep in?” I ask as I trudge into my kitchen. Peeta laughs, throwing off his rhythm as he continues his push ups and I start coffee. I declined a job from Gale last night and spent the night tossing and turning. Searching with Peeta for a place for him to live has made it difficult to keep my mind off the folder in my nightstand and Gale’s offer of semi-freedom. I promised him that I’d think about it, but every time I do, I break into shakes and start sweating.

 

I don’t want to think about the hundreds of things that could go wrong if I accept. The hundreds of others if I refuse and attempt to maintain our current relationship. There is always the chance that if I refuse, he’ll stop requesting me. I ran the numbers last night and realiezed that I already depend on Gale far too much. My head starts to hurt and I plaster a fake smile on my face as Peeta stands. He and Gale don’t coexist well in my mind and I don’t need to make the headache any worse.

 

“So I was thinking,” Peeta says as he fills his water glass. “There’s someplace I wanted to go today since Effie doesn’t have us scheduled for any viewings. Are you up for an adventure after I shower and we get some breakfast?”

 

“Sure,” I say because I feel like the walls of my place are shrinking in on me and I need to get out and breathe. Plus, spending the day with Peeta sounds a lot more fun than anything I could get up to on my own.

 

************************

 

“Spacious living room, and the view the windows provide is simply divine!” Effie gushes as her heels clack loudly on the parquet floor. The place is stunning. Gorgeous. But like every other place she’s dragged us to so far this morning, and two days ago, and the day before that, it’s clearly out of Peeta’s price range. Some of the places he might have been able to swing, if he was willing to forgo TV services or something, but this one isn’t even close. She’s dragged us over half the city during the past week, the few places she did take us to that he could afford were so far away from the shipyards that he’d break the bank on transportation to and from work when he actually has to go back.

 

His spine hasn’t relaxed in two hours. I’m starting to worry that he’ll be permanently thin lipped and standing at attention for the rest of his life if this woman doesn’t take him seriously about the rent range he gave her. The only saving grace is that we’ve had a day or two free from her sales pitches since she’s got other clients to attend to as well. But he has to be hungry by now. I know I am. So hungry that I may rearrange her platinum blonde wig into a buffet if she doesn’t let up soon here.

 

“Oh! The library!” she flings open a set of doors and I gawk at the room’s low hanging chandelier and walls lined with built in shelving. “Imported crystal chandelier. All mahogany and custom made bookshelves! The last tenant for this apartment was Colonel Thread of the Army. Do you know him?”

 

“I’ve heard of him, but never met him personally,” Peeta says as he looks around the room. 

 

The massive windows let in an enormous amount of light. It slants over his profile as he turns, taking in the beautiful room, the huge, double-sided fireplace on the interior wall that it shares with the living room. Effie prattles on, but her words recede. An image of Peeta in a deep armchair, a sketchbook on his lap and a roaring fire illuminating his features hits me so hard I can barely breathe. A little girl racing in to show him something and his answering smile lighting the room.

 

My imagination adds a plush rug in front of the fireplace and the picture shifts. A pair of bodies writhing sensuously beneath a blanket. The sketchbook and a satin negligee discarded at the edges of the rug. His hands curling into the thick pile and hers in his blonde hair. A pair of moans belonging to lovers. A flash of a diamond ring on her finger.

 

“The place truly is lovely,” Peeta’s voice interrupts the hellish vision. I startle and focus back on him. The real Peeta, with his hands in his pockets and a polite smile on his face. “Sadly, Colonel Thread is a colonel. I’m still just a lowly ensign. Maybe in about ten or fifteen years this place would be a possibility, and I’d definitely consider it then.”

 

“Oh!” Effie exclaims, covering her mouth slightly as her cheeks turn pink. “I am so sorry, dear! You said you serve in the navy and well you’re so dashing, I just assumed. Well, let me see now.”

 

She swipes across the tablet she’s been carrying the entire time. Peeta smiles at me and moves to stand next to me while she mutters to herself and searches for new options.

 

“You can leave anytime you need to,” he whispers. “I don’t want to keep you from anything.”

 

“After all the places this woman has dragged us to, you’re not getting rid of me until you buy me lunch,” I say and he laughs. 

 

“She is remarkably determined, isn’t she?”

 

“Oh, admirably so,” I snark, jumping when Effie clears her throat.

 

“I think I have just the place for you, my dear. It’s not available yet, but the current tenant is more than willing to allow me to show the place. It’ll be available in two weeks time. And I just know your girlfriend will  _ love _ the closet space!”

 

“Okay,” Peeta says, offering his arm to me. The gesture surprises me, but I loop my arm through his as we follow Effie back outside of the building and into her company car. Neither of us bothers to correct her, and I try not to think about what that means. She talks the next place up to Peeta as we drive, but I don’t hear a word. My phone buzzes in my pocket, the screen lit with a notification from work when I pull it out to check.

 

I chew on my lip and glance up at Peeta, who is occupied with Effie, so I open the message. Another job offer. For tonight. Drinks at a bar for a work function. Sex afterwards left unselected. He’s already offered a generous tip up front for it being so last minute. My fingers shake as they hover over the words: ACCEPT JOB. I should take it. I’ve declined four other jobs in the past week. I haven’t worked since the bachelor party, too caught up in spending time with Peeta.

 

Hunting for a place to live with him today and most of the others, but we’ve somehow managed to fill the ones when Effie hasn’t had time to schedule us in. Walking in the park. Relaxing on my couch in the evenings with him sketching and me reading the pile of books I’ve collected but never read before now. Teasing him in the mornings when he’s up long before I am. By the time I make it out to the kitchen, he’s already folded the blankets and neatly stacked them with the pillows in the corner, gone for a run, started breakfast, and is usually in the midst of his push-ups, his dog tags clanking each time he lowers himself to the ground and they strike the kitchen floor. Sharing meals. Taking turns showering before we head out to see some sight in the city that Peeta’s always wanted to see but never had the chance. Places I’d dismissed as foolish until I shared them with him. 

 

We returned to the food truck one afternoon and after an excited conversation with the owner, we purchased several wraps and enough tea to fill the thermos we’d brought with us. Then we sat huddled on the sand beneath a dock on the beaches of Four, the cold wind whipping the waves into an icy white froth as we kept warm with food and each other and mindless talk of what book I was reading that day or an art gallery he wanted to visit the next. It’s been a wondrous week. I’ve never had a friend like Peeta. Someone I don’t feel the need to flatter or flirt with. Someone who isn’t with me for what he can get out of me.

 

But I’m not his girlfriend.

 

I scowl as my own thoughts sink into the deepest parts of my mind. The ones that have kept me alive this long. This is stupid. Peeta knows how I make my living. I need to stop avoiding my job and accept the fact that I am still the whore from District Twelve and I will be bankrupt and starving if I don’t work. He is a naval officer with a promising career, and a good friend of the police commissioner’s son to boot. He can’t be friends with a prostitute. He’s just being kind. Again. And I can’t let him ruin his life for me now any more than I could five years ago. Not when his future is that hallucination I had while we were in Colonel Thread’s old apartment. Everything that’s happened between us in the past week is unsustainable.

 

I press the button to accept and try to smile at Peeta when he looks at me and whispers that he’s got a good feeling about this next place she’s taking us to, and even if it’s awful, we’re quitting for the day to get something to eat after because he spotted this quaint little bistro that he wants to check out with me.

 

************************

 

After dinner, I retreat into my bedroom, leaving him with the cleanup and myself with a mountain of guilt. I shower and slap my makeup on my face, the routine second nature by now so that only half an hour or so has passed when I emerge from my room in my dress and heels.

 

I duck my gaze to avoid Peeta’s as I walk to the coat closet and don my coat. I haven’t even fucked anyone yet and it already feels like a walk of shame. The thickness of the silence says it all. He knows where I’m going. He has to know. But he also has to know that this was inevitable. As much as I’ve enjoyed spending time with him, as light and carefree and young and pure as it has made me feel, it isn’t real. It  _ can’t _ be real.

 

“Were you going to say anything at all?” he asks as I grasp the door knob.

 

“Peeta, we both knew this was inevitable. I’m still--”

 

“How late will you be?”

 

“What?” I ask him, spinning around to see if he’s for real. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets and his jaw is clenched tightly. I can practically feel his anger and frustration across the room. Not even when Effie took us to five hundred apartments he couldn’t afford did he seem so angry. He squeezes his eyes shut and refuses to look at me. I wouldn’t look at me either.

 

“I want to know about how late you think you’ll be. So I can call the police if you’re later than that.”

 

“You don’t have to do that,” I tell him. He opens his mouth to protest so I keep talking, because I’m seriously thinking of cancelling on this customer, and I can’t be doing that. Not indefinitely. “We have a system in our firm for safety checks. If I don’t clock in with them, they start looking for me. And they’ll know where to start. You won’t.”

 

His jaw ticks and he nods perfunctorily. I don’t owe him an answer. He needs to accept this as the reality of my life. Especially if he wants to be the friend he claims he does. I give it to him anyways, telling myself it’s for the boy who held me while I sobbed after my mother’s funeral. Who gave me a brief taste of peace when I deserved none.

 

“It’s just drinks, so I shouldn’t be out too much past one or two in the morning. Don’t wait up for me,” I murmur. He nods again, and this time, he looks up at me and watches me as I leave. I wish he hadn’t. Because then I have to fight back tears in the cab and obsessively check my mascara all the way to the bar. By the time I get there, though, I have remembered who I am now.

 

I am Kat. Girl from District Twelve who fucks to pay the bills. And gave up any hope for a decent life the night she lived and instead, her father and sister died.

 

************************

 

There’s laughter and soft touches. Intimate leaning and breath puffed over ears and bare shoulders. A sham. A facade. A complete lie. A meaningless, choreographed dance. My body aches in stiffness at holding myself together. Fake smiles take far more effort than real ones. And I know the difference now. I flirt and play my part. His cronies nod and pat him on the back for landing such an attractive mate. It disgusts me.

 

I try to recall if a job in recent memory has left such a foul taste in my mouth before. I can’t think of a single one. As I stare at the perfect face in the mirror of the ladies’ room, I try to remember how I’ve done this before. Why does it hurt so much right now? I need to make myself numb.

 

My phone pings and I glance at the screen. An adjustment to my current job. Coldness sweeps through me as I punch ACCEPT ADJUSTMENT. Wait for the tone that indicates the additional deposit has been made. Check my lipstick once more and then plaster the smile back on my face. Bid farewell to the coworkers and let him slip my coat back on my shoulders. Follow him into the night. This will remind me what I am in a way that nothing else can.

 

He’s in a hurry. Excited and eager. There’s no foreplay and I stare at his ceiling as he fucks, the mattress of his bed and my body bouncing in time with his thrusts and his grunts. At least he doesn’t talk much. With each smack of his body against mine, I grow colder. Numb.

 

When he’s done, he rolls off me with a satisfied sigh. He peels off the condom and pays me. Tells me he’ll hire me again for the groundbreaking coming up since I helped him seal whatever deal he was working towards tonight.

 

“That’s fine, honey,” I say, my voice tinny and distant to my ears, but he smiles and flings an arm over his eyes, is asleep within seconds. 

 

I get dressed and leave him, grateful that when I get back to my place, Peeta is already asleep, his sketchbook open on his chest, arm dangling off the side of the couch and his charcoal pencil on the floor. I shower, scrubbing deep and hard before changing into soft, fluffy pajamas. Then I remove the sketchbook from his hands and set it on the end table. 

 

He drew us. Or at least me. At the beach the other day, cocooned in blankets with only my eyes visible, but even though that’s all you can see, I can tell I’m supposedly smiling. Happiness radiates from my eyes and the sight is painful. Those kinds of days with him aren’t a luxury that I can afford. 

 

I cover him with the blankets and turn out the lights before I go to bed, telling myself that it’s coincidence. He must be imagining the joy in my eyes in that picture. It must be what he  _ wants _ to see, not what’s real. And I tell myself that he didn’t really try to wait up for me.

 

The lies taste foul and I didn’t even voice them.

 

************************

 

“Effie called this morning,” Peeta says as he dishes some of the eggs onto my plate. I nod absently. I barely slept last night. “She says I can swing by this afternoon to sign the papers. The guy is moving out in a week; they want a week to clean and do any repairs they need to, and then I can move in.”

 

“That’s great,” I say. There’s another person in the room right now. I know his face and the sounds he makes when he comes and Peeta doesn’t know a thing about him. And it’s clearly killing us both.

 

“So I called around again and found a room at Victoria Lane Inn. It’s close to my new place and not exorbitantly priced,” he says quietly. This makes my head snap up to look at him. He smiles wistfully and picks up his glass of orange juice. As though he just announced something innocuous, like that he needs a haircut. “I didn’t reserve it yet. But I can if that’s what you want. We both knew this was inevitable, Katniss.”

 

I stare at him as he drinks his juice. The cracks across my chest that I’ve been holding together splinter and widen.

 

“I guess knowing about it and seeing it in action are two different things,” I sneer. Peeta sighs and shakes his head.

 

“That’s not it.”

 

“Then what is it, Peeta?” I practically snarl at him. We’ve been here before, with me unleashing my pent up anger and disgust with myself straight at him. He doesn’t flinch, though. Not like the boy at the lake.

 

“Isn’t there anything else in this world you’d rather do? Katniss, you look like you’re half dead. And that was just having drinks with some guy and pretending that you think he’s witty for a few hours. He wasn't really witty, was he?”

 

“What would you know?” I snap and snatch my plate up off the table. Peeta doesn’t know that I ended up fucking the guy. I can't even bring myself to tell him that much.

 

“I know what you looked like after you sucked off a teacher in between classes so you could afford groceries. I know what you looked like in the snow, walking home after fucking a guy in the back of a car in the alley behind the bakery so you could cover rent. A guy who had a son our age in school. I know what you looked like when that son grabbed your ass in the hallway two weeks before graduation so he could feel like a man when really he was just slime. And I know what you look like after banging a mortician and a pharmacist basically for a week straight after your mother died just so you could clear your debts and get the hell out of the place that never deserved you.”

 

I snort and toss my dirty dishes in the sink. It's easier to scoff away all the things he noticed about me rather than think about what it means.

 

“But I also know what you look like when you laugh and mean it. At least I think I do. Tell me if I’m wrong,” he says, his voice softened and nearby. Almost beseeching as he approaches me. He keeps going when I don’t correct him. “I know what you look like when you sing with joy in your heart. And what you look like when someone focuses just on you. On how to make  _ you _ feel wanted and pleasured and -- and -- Katniss,  _ look _ at me.”

 

I grip the edges of the sink and watch my knuckles whiten. So this is it then. How Peeta Mellark finally realizes that nothing has changed. That nothing  _ can  _ change. And that I really was doing the best thing for him that night I left him sleeping on my Garfield comforter five years ago. I seize the edges of the cracks with both hands and hold them together. I can’t keep being selfish. I can’t keep him. And we were both fooling ourselves thinking we could be friends.

 

“I can’t,” I whisper. “You should go.”

 

The silence stretches as he waits for me to explain further, but I won’t. If I do, I’ll give in to it. I’ll cry and sob and soak his shirt with my tears and hate my job and myself, and I’ll cling to him until I convince him to stay longer when he should be running away screaming. I was stupid to bring him here. Stupider to ask him to stay. Stupidest to think we could be friends.

 

“I guess I just don’t understand,” he whispers, his voice breaking a little and making me clench the counter tighter still. “I thought that if there was a way out, you’d take it. And if there wasn’t one, you’d create it.”

 

He’s wrong. There’s no way out of this life. This time, he’s the one that leaves. While I’m still standing silently in the kitchen. Frozen. And finally. Finally, he sees me for what I really am.

 

************************

 

At first, I try to bury myself in work. It's easier than facing the text message that Peeta sends me just hours after he leaves my place.

 

_ Tell me I'm wrong and I’ll stay away. But I won't give up on you until you tell me I'm wrong. _

 

I should lie to him, but even though I type out the words  _ You’re wrong  _ at least five hundred times, I can never bring myself to hit  _ Send.  _ Because he’s right. I hate myself and I hate what I do for a living. I hate that I let myself get sucked into this world and that I’ve never found that way out he spoke of.

 

So I don't answer his text. Or the handful of others he sends, letting me know that he signed a lease on the last apartment Effie took us to see, a simple “good morning, hope you slept well,” or a picture of a sunrise that I'm guessing he took while out for his morning run. Every time he sends me a cheerful note, I have to fight myself not to answer. But it's no good. I have to work to survive. And neither of us can stand it. So it's better if we don't even try. Despite my decision and my better judgement, I don't block his number. 

 

And I make one other dumb mistake. 

 

While I’m curled up on my couch one night, clutching one of the throw pillows to my chest, I stare out the window, watching the snow fall. I stare until my eyes itch and my body aches from the tension holding me together. After two awful dates in the same day, and one fuck in a limousine that leaves my ass stinging where the guy kept smacking me, I’m beginning to doubt my ability to keep on surviving. Peeta once called me a survivor. A fighter. It makes sense. Survivors are despicable and selfish and I guess that’s in my blood. It’s what my mother did when she started taking those drugs, even though they ultimately destroyed her. It’s what I did that night at the lake, when I made Peeta think that something so beautiful I couldn’t bear to lose it was fake and lost it anyways. Again when I took that job and drove him away once more.

 

So when my phone pings and I stare at the time until my temples pound, I fuck up again. I let it get to me. The time that I’ve spent sitting here, a useless lump on my couch. Four hours. My mother used to do shit like that. And I know then that I can’t keep doing this. I thought I was holding onto this job so that I didn't turn into her, but that's exactly what I'm doing anyways. Something has to break. 

 

So I decline the job. And I keep declining them. The only client I accept is Gale. Needing the reminder once more of what I am, I meet with him at his apartment and he fucks me in the foyer, my ass slipping all over the marble table as he pounds into me. I stare at his ceiling as he chants the word  _ fuck _ over and over in a monotonous ditty while our skin slaps together and he knocks over a stack of mail and one porcelain vase that shatters on the floor right as he comes.

 

As I leave, my phone explodes with more bookings for Gale. I accept them all and then return home to look at the folder he gave me again. To seriously consider his offer. At least then, the charade would only be for one person. Maybe then, I wouldn’t feel so numb.

 

I get away with my solo client for about a week before Johanna calls and insists that we need to do lunch. I agree to meet her only because if I don’t, she won’t leave me alone.

 

“Plutarch is worried about you,” she says as we sit down at our table. “You look like shit.”

 

“Plutarch is worried about profits and his reputation,” I say and Johanna snorts.

 

“Yeah, he is. And he says you’ve only been seeing Hurricane for the past week.”

 

“Wow, news travels fast,” I say, swirling one of the pieces of bread left on our table as an appetizer through the oil speckled with rosemary.

 

“Cut the shit, Kat,” Johanna says, crossing her arms on the table. “You’ve been avoiding me and now this. Plutarch  _ is _ worried about profits and how it looks if one of his girls keeps declining job offers, especially from repeat customers or multiple offers from the same new customer. I’m worried about  _ you. _ Are you seeing someone? Like for real? Hurricane file for divorce?”

 

I could lie. But she’d know.

 

“No, Hurricane hasn’t filed for divorce. What he did do was offer me a permanent position as his mistress. Apartment, chef, housekeeper, the works.” My voice is hollow and monotone. Johanna whistles and picks up her own slice of bread.

 

“And the wife?”

 

“Not leaving the picture,” I say with a smirk that she returns. But then she surprises me.

 

“Okay listen to me Kitty and listen good. I know that look on your face. I’ve seen it before. You’re almost burned out. And it can be done. I haven’t seen it work with becoming a mistress, and the failure rate is spectacular.  _ But _ I know an escort who started in Four, fucking politicians and trading secrets for even more money, but finally left the business a couple years ago. Fell in love. Got married. Even has a kid now. Real good friend of mine, too. You didn’t hear this from me, okay? That person is never talked about in our world. It’s bad for business. You see, it doesn’t work if we all think we can find the love of our lives and get out. But the trick is to find another job and not let anyone know you’re doing it. Something to keep you on your own feet enough so that, should Hurricane fall through, you don’t backpedal. Because if you have to come crawling back to Plutarch, he might not take you. But Crane will.”

 

I shudder and the bread crumbles in my hand as my fist clenches. Everyone knows about Crane. While Plutarch prides himself on discretion, which includes everything from thorough medical care to prime beauticians and wardrobe consults for his escorts, Crane doesn’t give a damn so long as they keep raking in the money. When they no longer do, they’re kicked out on the streets and left to fend for themselves.

 

Johanna picks up one of the coasters and scribbles something on it before sliding it across the table to me. It’s just a phone number, but she hisses at me as the waiter approaches to take our order and I stuff it in my purse on her orders. Once the waiter is done and has left again, she picks up her wineglass and holds it up to me.

 

“Call that number. They don’t have any ties to Plutarch so maybe they can help. Don’t fuck it up, girl.”

 

After we’ve eaten, I leave the restaurant in a daze towards home. I’ve never heard of anyone leaving Plutarch’s employ until they were too old to be purchased anymore. For years now, I’ve been operating under the assumption that this was it for me. No way out. Not until I’m fifty or sixty and even surgery can’t make me look young anymore. Johanna’s information puts a new light on my situation, though.

 

A quick search of the information database gives me a name to put with the number Johanna gave me. Home for Wayward Souls. It sounds ominous, but if Jo trusts them, I guess I can give them a shot. I dial the number, but it goes straight to a recorded message. A voice drones off an address and operating hours as well as an after hours emergency phone number. It cuts off before giving me any menu options or even saying that someone will be right with me.

 

I chew on a thumbnail and stare at the coaster on my kitchen table, berating myself for letting hope back in. I’ve tried this before, when I left Twelve. Getting out then just led to failure, or as Johanna called it, backpedaling. But I was starting from nothing when I went to Seven. I’ve got money now. More things I could sell when desperation sets in. And as much as I hate the idea of it, if I take Gale’s offer, I’d still have at least half a leg to stand on for awhile. The details are still hazy, but it’s a chance. A wild, crazy chance that I want to take. A possible way out.

 

And someone once showed me that it isn't shameful to accept help when you need it most. I'm not sure that I qualify as needing it, but if there's even the slightest chance, I’m going to take it.

 

I call once more and jot down the address. It’s not too far away. I might actually take the bus. First, though, I change into something less conspicuous. A warm sweater over my jeans. Dab off some of the makeup, and braid my hair back. The same hiking boots I wore most of last week and a plain anorak coat.

 

The bus is crowded and smells awful. Stale urine, unwashed bodies, the sweat of labor, someone’s onions from their lunch or groceries. Hopelessness. I tuck my face into the high neck of my sweater and try not to make eye contact with anyone. There’s a young girl sitting next to her mother five rows in front of me. The mother’s head rests on the window, her face creased in wrinkles. Weary and broken. The girl’s lemon colored coat is patched in several places and she plays quietly with a doll that’s so worn that the facial features have been removed. Smudged away by the hands that have played with her.

 

The girl elbows her mother, and the woman lifts her head to smile at the child. They talk in hushed tones as the woman plays with her daughter quietly and I have to look away. I’m grateful when they get off two stops before me as it gives me time to compose myself before I march into the unknown.

 

The Home for Wayward Souls is about a half a block away from the nearest bus stop. I have to slog through some slush since they’ve plowed the roads but not shoveled the sidewalks in this part of town yet. The dirty stuff dampens the outer leather of my boots. It’s a good thing I wore them. I wouldn't have made it very far in my heels.

 

I pause in front of the building. It’s a two story brownstone nestled between a public defender’s office and a playground that should probably be condemned. A scrubbed wooden cross hangs over the door and about a third of the sign is covered in graffiti. As I stand there, a few girls around sixteen and eighteen walk past me. They’re smiling and talking as they enter the building. When the door shuts on them, I realize that Jo gave me a bum lead. Maybe she didn’t know, but this is a place for teens.

 

But I didn’t come this far just to turn back around.

 

There’s a desk just inside the door with a woman sitting behind it. I approach her, watching her type furiously on an old fashioned typewriter machine. Hating to interrupt her, I take in my surroundings. There’s the distinct smell of bleach and loud chatter drifts down the hall from what sounds like a cafeteria or small gymnasium. Above the woman's head hangs a sign that reads: Kindness, Forgiveness, and Charity are the root of all Hope. I hope they mean that.

 

I clear my throat and she stops typing to look up at me.

 

“What can I do for you?” she asks, eyeing my painted face and my coat. I fiddle with the hem of it, suddenly wishing I had something less fancy to wear.

 

“I’m trying to find a job,” I say.

 

“Hon, we aren’t the employment agency. They’re over on Tenth Street.” With that dismissal, she returns to her typing. “You wasted your time comin’ here, Miss five hundred dollar coat. We can’t help you. And frankly, I’m annoyed you’d wanna divert our time and money from young girls who actually need it.”

 

Humiliated, I turn around and leave, blinded by the desperation crawling it’s way out of my throat and my tear ducts. I have to sidestep as a man walking down the sidewalk almost barrels into me.

 

“Watch it!” he says testily, then his eyebrow lifts when he takes a good look at me. My skin crawls under his perusal and I break into a run. The fuckface whistles and comments on my ass. I should be used to this shit by now, but I’d hoped my clothes would give me some form of concealment. The next bus is thankfully just arriving, otherwise, I think I’d keep running until I found another one. I climb on and pay my fare and somehow keep it together until I make it home.

 

My eyes sting as I dive inside and collapse against my door. As the subtle scents of the potpourri I keep on hand fill my nostrils and my cheeks burn with the sudden warmth, I realize what a mistake this was. I choke back a sob and hold a hand over my mouth. Johanna was wrong. Peeta was wrong. 

 

Peeta.

 

I want to call him. To have him hold me the way he did after my mother’s funeral. Why did I tell him to go?

 

But by the time I get my hiccoughs under control, I remember that I shouldn’t do that. I can’t keep dragging him back into my life and pretending. We aren’t friends. We can’t really be friends. Still, I stare at his name on my phone for a good ten minutes before tossing it aside and distracting myself with making dinner.

 

As soon as the phone hits the table, though, it goes off, practically exploding with messages. I snatch the thing up and stare at the names as they roll in. They’re all from the girls at the firm. And then it starts ringing. Clove’s name flashes on my screen. She never calls me. I’m so shocked that I answer.

 

“Kat, we need you at the hospital. Now.”

 

“What’s going on?” I ask her.

 

“Some fuckwad sailor rearranged Glimmer’s face.”

 

************************

**_To be continued..._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks, as always, to peetabreadgirl for editing this chapter as well as providing sounding board and voice of reason services, for putting aside your personal wishes and talking to me honestly about this story. Thank you also to everyone for leaving comments. They are all so appreciated! <3
> 
> While I know that this Katniss may feel a little cruel and cold-hearted, I felt that this lifestyle especially would harden her against letting people in and lead her to push them away more forcefully than perhaps she does in canon. It's not a happy-sappy story, but I can say that Peeta is getting wise to her defense mechanisms. ;-) Chapter 4 is already half written, but in the meantime, I would love to hear your thoughts - good, bad, or indifferent.


	4. Chapter 4

When I first started in this business, an older woman in Twelve gave me pointers. Her name was Ripper and she’d lost an arm in the mines, making her unemployable. After that, she made her living selling herself and her home distilled liquor. Sometimes together. But she taught me the basics after she’d heard I’d gone to Cray.

 

Don’t go anywhere with a customer if no one will be able to hear you scream. Every man that buys a woman feels inferior in some way. Don’t laugh unless you’re sure he’s made a joke. Condoms always. And at some point, someone is going to hit you because you sell yourself, and in their eyes, that makes you a thing, a commodity, not a person.

 

A stark lesson for a sixteen year old to absorb. Being an escort instead gave me more luxury to choose my customers. I have the privilege of saying “no” now. That doesn’t mean a “no” is an accepted answer, though. Perhaps I’ve been fortunate that, so far at least, no one has struck me in anger. I’ve been spanked, but not struck down. Glimmer is another matter.

 

Her face is a mess of seeping cuts and bruises that make her unrecognizable. Her right eye is swollen shut and the left isn’t much better. He broke her jaw and it’s been surgically wired back together. Once so beautiful, and now just a beat up whore. As much as I can’t stand Glimmer personally, I had to be here with her and the other girls, despite the sobering reminder that even though we’re paid in large sums and showered with jewels or designer purses or promises of posh private residences, at the end of the day, we’re still nothing more than a plaything to our customers and all we really have anymore is ourselves.

 

Clove sits perched on the edge of Glimmer’s bed, holding a straw in her friend’s mouth so Glimmer can slowly sip on some water. Most of the others stopped by to drop flowers or cards or air kisses and stayed long enough to be polite before they vanished. We all have our limits and I guess theirs are shorter than mine. I remain in the cold plastic chair and wait for Jo, who I know will be here as soon as she can.

 

I twirl my phone in my hands and once more debate calling Peeta. All I can think about right now, all I’ve been able to think about since I left the Wayward Souls, is his embrace and how soothed I felt in it after my mother’s funeral. But I can’t call him for this. Not after the manner in which we parted ways. I can't encourage him to keep believing that I can, and need, to find a way out of my life. And this would only serve as ammunition for his reasoning.

 

The next best thing bustles into the room with fury in her eyes and a silk scarf dangling precariously off her shoulders. Her coat unbuttoned, her stockings ripped, and her smeared makeup all clear indications that she came here straight from a job.

 

“Who the fuck did this?” Jo growls at Clove, raising the hair on the back of my neck. I’ve seen her angry before, but this sort of rage is new.

 

“We were on a double together and Glimmer took her guy somewhere quiet to give him what he paid for. I stayed with mine so we could finish our game of pool first. About fifteen minutes later, Glimmer’s date comes storming back in all raged out and snarling. He grabbed my date and told me we were a bunch of useless cunts. Then they left. I went looking for Glimmer, and this is what he’d done to her. I don’t know why yet since she can’t talk,” Clove explains as Glimmer’s head bobs slightly to confirm. 

 

“Fucking cockbag,” Jo mutters and sits on Glimmer’s other side, leaning in to get a better look at the damage. “You know what he looks like? His name?”

 

“Guy in a navy uniform, an officer, I think. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall and muscular. Kinda thought he was hot until he pulled this,” Clove describes. My stomach bottoms out, but it can’t be him. I refuse to believe that Peeta could do this to anyone. Jo’s eyes snap up to me, and I can see it in her face already. She thinks it  _ is _ Peeta. I give her a slight shake of my head.

 

“His name?” Jo asks again.

 

“But--,” Clove falters, eyes darting between Glimmer, Jo, and myself, confused that Jo is asking her to break one of our most firm rules. Discretion. Right under condoms, condoms, condoms, and no falling in love.

 

“His. Name. Clove. Now,” Jo mutters darkly, eyes locked with mine.

 

“Cato Roberts,” Clove says, and I hold myself stiff and straight to keep Jo from seeing my reaction.

 

“He’s blacklisted, got it? No one sees him,” Jo says. “Get some rest, Glimmer. I’ll talk to Plutarch and we’ll take care of everything.”

 

She stands and starts to sweep out of the room. I rise automatically, and her hand grips my arm in a vise as she drags me out and around a corner to a somewhat secluded waiting area. Johanna slams me into the wall and gets right in my face.

 

“Was this your Sailor?”

 

“No! That’s not my sailor’s name.”

 

“I’m serious, Kat. I need to know for sure. His ass won’t be getting anyone, not an escort or even a $90 hooker, until he’s ninety-eight and his balls are too shriveled to do anything but hang as pointless ornaments on his crusty ass useless dick, got it? So tell me how you can be so sure. Clove’s description fits, and I want a face with the name so I can fuck up his world if I ever see him again.”

 

“You can’t be angry with me if I tell you,” I bite back at her, pleased when she blinks in surprise and steps back a little.

 

“Fuck, I  _ knew _ it. You’ve been acting screwy ever since that damn party. You’re still seeing him, aren’t you? Without getting paid?” She releases my arm and I rub the spot that will probably bruise later from the grip she had on it. “Is that the real reason why you want out?”

 

“I’m not anymore,” I murmur. “He’s from Twelve. I’ve known Peeta since we were kids and he--”

 

“Christ, that’s why you insisted we swap. Because you already knew him.” All I can do is nod and be grateful she cut me off before I could spill something that’d send her into a tailspin of rage. Johanna laughs mirthlessly before throwing her hands up in the air. “Did you  _ want _ to fuck him that night?”

 

“No!” I answer too quickly and she narrows her eyes at me. “I hadn’t seen him in years until the bachelor party, and I just didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable.”

 

“So you threw yourself at his feet? Because you didn’t want him to fuck me instead, is that it? You thought I’d chew him up and spit him out? Holy shitballs, Kat, that was dumb. What’d you think was gonna happen? You’re lucky he didn’t flip out when he found out what you are.”

 

“Peeta’s always known what I am. Since the day after my first job. Twelve doesn’t keep secrets very well,” I explain.

 

“No wonder he got drunk,” Johanna mutters under her breath. Then she shakes her head and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fuck it all, I don’t need this right now, Kat. I’ve got a busted up girl and you on the verge of leaving and -- holy shit! Do Hurricane and Sailor know about each other? Are you fucking them both?”

 

My stunned expression has more to do with her shock over the possibility of me with just two guys at the same time but it must reveal more than I want because Jo starts laughing hysterically before she grabs my arms and smacks me into the wall again. My head snaps back and for a second, I see stars. My teeth rattle with the force of the blow or I’d tell her that I haven’t fucked Peeta. Ever.

 

“Are you out of your damned mind?” She hisses under her breath. “They’ll figure it out eventually. You’re a shitty as fuck liar. You can’t create some sort of tacky romantic triangle out of your life and expect it to end neatly. Even you’re not  _ that  _ brainless. If you take Hurricane’s offer, you have to be his. And  _ only  _ his. One of them has got to get cut out of your life. Permanently. Yesterday. You want your face to be the next one that gets bashed in? Jealous guys do that shit, you know.”

 

Recovering my senses, I break her hold and shove her away from me. But the burst of rage is short-lived.

 

“I’ve already taken care of that,” I say, furious at the way my voice cracks a little. I sound so fucking pathetic. She appraises me, mouth hanging open. Then she slowly nods.

 

“Well fuck me sideways and slap my grandmother. I never thought I’d see the day,” she mutters then laughs that hysterical laugh again before burying her face in her hands. “You care about him. And yet you still booted him out over Hurricane. Why?”

 

I shift nervously on my feet, eyes darting around us as Jo stands upright and runs her fingers through her spiked brown hair. She levels me with an odd look and then her lips quirk up in a smile.

 

“It’s the money, isn’t it?”

 

Her words shock me. Is that what I did? Did I tell Peeta to leave and decide to take Gale’s offer because of the money? It'd be a despicable thing to do but I wouldn't put it past myself to sink that low.

 

“I don't know,” I mumble to Johanna and she closes her eyes, grips one of my arms and clenches her other hand into a fist as she makes a furious noise in her throat. The tantrum is over in a second and she steps away from me before opening her now calm eyes.

 

“Alright, well. I’ve got phone calls to make and they’re going to be unpleasant, so you owe me lunch and details -- to include an answer to that question about why you’re picking Hurricane -- for putting me through the shitstorm that is no doubt about to unfold.”

 

“I told you, Peeta’s not--”

 

“Stop using his name, Brainless,” she says through her teeth and I clamp my mouth shut. “Fuck! Quit acting like a lovesick amateur and get out of my face. I’ll call you when I don’t feel like ripping your throat out for keeping this shit from me.”

 

************************

 

Johanna’s words stay with me after I leave the hospital. It's already dark and a bitter wind howls down the streets. I walk most of the way, grateful to still be wearing the warm, comfortable clothes I wore to the Home for Wayward Souls. The words of the woman there and Peeta's drunken confessions, his sober assertions that I'm a survivor and a fighter mingle together in a mental cacophony that’s on the verge of driving me berserk.

 

Halfway home, my phone makes things worse, chiming to remind me that I have an appointment in an hour. With Gale. I’m not sure I’m up for it. I stall for as long as I can, but eventually, I have to face the music. 

 

When Gale’s finished, he rolls to the side and I stare at the ceiling, trying to map a way back to the start, hoping that I can maybe think my way back out.

 

“What are you thinking?” Gale asks, startling me. I'd been so lost in my own thoughts that I forgot where I was.

 

“About you,” I say with a smile. It’s an automatic response, ingrained in my head from years of pretending to find the person of the hour to be the most irresistible human being. Gale’s answering smile twists a knife in my gut. He kisses my cheek and shifts to hover over my mouth. He believes me. “Gale--”

 

“I’ve got to go to Seven to take care of some business. I leave in two weeks. Come with me, Catnip.”

 

“I don’t understand,” I say to distract him when he lowers his head to kiss me. His brow wrinkles and he stares at me instead.

 

“I want you to come with me. You can see Seven; the trees there are unbelievable. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You were always so fond of the woods back home. And when I’m not working,” he grins again and his hand cups my ass, pulling me against him. “We can never leave the bed if you don’t want to. And maybe it’ll help you make up your mind about the apartment.”

 

He kneads my ass and sucks on my neck, hard enough to leave hickies. And this is when I realize what my life will be as his mistress. It could be worse, I suppose. I have no good memories of Seven, but Gale doesn’t know anything about that. So I find myself agreeing to the trip. It will be the first time I’ve stayed overnight with him and the reality of that leaves a churning feeling in my gut as I make my way home through the falling snow in the middle of the night.

 

When I reach my building, the sudden silencing of the wind leaves my ears stinging with cold and throbbing in pain. And I can't help but wonder if Johanna was right about me. Did I make a subconscious choice to cut Peeta out of my life because Gale is a more stable choice? In terms of finance. He's married and it may not last but he’s asking me to be a more prominent figure in his life to include traveling with him, and I’m just so confused that my eyes start to water.

 

“Miss Everdeen? Are you alright?”

 

I glance up and stare at Thom, my unshed tears distorting his face and making me think of Glimmer. The faceless doll that the girl in the lemon coat played with on the bus. I'm grasping at straws and seeking connections, desperate to find or make the way out that Peeta seemed so confident I could manage.

 

“Miss Everdeen?” Thom repeats.

 

“I'm fine, Thom. It's just been a long day.”

 

“I'm sorry to hear that.” 

 

He doesn’t pry any further and I offer no further explanation, taking the elevator up to my floor and letting the  _ swhoosh _ of each passing level calm me. It doesn’t work. Exhausted, I collapse into bed. My sleep is restless and plagued with nightmares.

 

*************************

 

I wander the streets during the day if Gale doesn’t need me, and find myself at the hospital one afternoon. Since I’m here, I decide to pay Glimmer a visit. She’s sitting up and yet somehow sleeping when I arrive. There’s a book on her bedside table, though, so I start reading. She’s no longer hooked up to a heart monitor, but her face is still a nightmare. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting there reading when the change in her breathing alerts me that she’s awake.

 

Her green eyes meet mine and I can see the surprise in them. We’ve never really spoken unless it was necessary before. She waves a hand towards a tablet on the table and I hand it to her. She sets it on her lap and then types something on the touchscreen. Her jaw is still immobilized. I lean over and read the words she’s typed.

 

_ Didn’t expect to see you here. _

 

“I was in the neighborhood and thought maybe I’d give you some company.”

 

_ Thanks. No one wants to see me right now. I can’t blame them. _

 

“Clove’s been by to see you, hasn’t she?”

 

She shakes her head and types something else.

 

_ Not since the day after. The nurse brought me that book you’re holding but I read it months ago. Besides, I’m having a hard time reading for more than a minute or two with only one eye. Could you maybe find another book and read to me? There’s supposedly a stock of them in one of the waiting rooms. _

 

“Sure,” I tell her, still surprised enough by her words about Clove to agree to Glimmer’s request. She must be lonely. Maybe scared about her future, too. I know I would be.

 

I find the books just down the hall and skim the titles. I have no idea what Glimmer would want to listen to and settle on a mystery novel. When I return to her room, she’s wide awake. It’s a short novella, though, and we’re through it by dinner. Still, I feel bad telling her that I have to go.

 

_ Thank you, Kat. It’s nice to hear something other than nurses rushing to the sound of failed hearts and yelling medical instructions. _

 

“Yeah, no problem,” I say. She reaches out and squeezes my hand as I stand up, but releases me before I can think about the touch too much.

 

In the hallway, I find a stretch of empty wall and lean against it, staring mindlessly at the glass window across from me. When I shift my head, I can see my reflection, but the quality of the glass is poor and alters my features. I look like someone rearranged  _ my _ face, and I wonder, if our positions were reversed, would anyone bother to come visit me? I don’t think they would. The number of people in this world who love me unconditionally is down to zero. It has been for years. Maybe Peeta would care, but after I turned him away again, I doubt he’d be able to muster enough energy to visit me. Besides, no one would think to tell him where I was.

 

As I approach the waiting room to return the book, I hear voices and laughter emanating from the room that weren’t there a couple hours ago.

 

“You’re a fucking liar, Mitch. You could’ve snuck some of that fireball whiskey in here under that ratty-ass coat of yours for an old friend.”

 

“Those nurses are hell on wheels, my friend. Besides, you’d drink me out of house if I let you.”

 

“Knew you were a closet coward,” the first voice grumbles.

 

I pause in the doorway and gasp in surprise. Peeta looks up from the chess board set on the table between him and a man in a hospital gown. The laughter from the conversation of the other two men still lingering on his lips. A third man sits hunched over, observing the game. He might look up at me, I don’t know.

 

“Hey,” Peeta says and stands. His chess opponent follows suit and I feel myself blushing at their sign of chivalry. 

 

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out and the observer of the game guffaws. Uncertainty flickers over Peeta’s face and regret flutters in my chest.

 

“Who’s the skirt, boy?” the observer asks gruffly and the other one shushes him.

 

“Shut your piehole, Mitch. I want an introduction.”

 

“I’m visiting a friend,” Peeta ignores the other two and explains, beckoning for me to move forward. As I step into the room, he indicates the man in the hosptial gown. He’s short and broad with bright hazel eyes and dark brown skin. His hair shaven almost clean away. “This is Chief Percival Chaff. We serve on the same tub. Chaff, Katniss is a friend of mine from home.”

 

“Ma’am, please just call me Chaff,” he says, stretching a hand out to me. It’s then that I notice his left hand is missing completely, the stump of his arm wrapped in some kind of compress. I place my hand in his, expecting a shake, but he lifts it to his lips and kisses it passionately, eyes dancing with mirth. “Enchanted.”

 

“Alright, that’s enough, you shameless flirt,” Peeta says good naturedly, gently pulling Chaff away from me. The observer has risen and I take in his swarthy skin, piercing gray eyes and mostly black hair. It’s on the long side and tied back with a scrap of linen, streaks of grey in the strands and lines around his eyes revealing him to be middle aged. He looks familiar to me, though.

 

“From home, eh? Well that explains a lot. Katniss? As in Everdeen?”

 

My insides curdle as he examines me and I try to remember if this man was ever a customer of mine. I don’t think he was. I’d remember fucking someone who could pass as my father.

 

“Yes,” Peeta says smoothly as he tucks my hand in his arm. I don’t miss the protective gesture, and neither does the gray-eyed man. Oddly, though, his lips turn up in a half-smile. “She was another one of your students, Haymitch.”

 

And that’s when I realize who this is. Haymitch Abernathy. Former principal of District Twelve high school. He’s cleaned up quite a bit since I last saw him.

 

“Well then there’s no hope for her either,” Chaff says with a laugh and plops back down in his chair.

 

“Hey, I’m not the one with my keester hanging out of a paper gown,” Haymitch says.

 

“You wound me and don’t even bring me whiskey,” Chaff says as he shakes his head, holding his one hand over his heart.

 

“Haymitch, can you finish the game for me?” Peeta asks, waving towards the board.

 

“I wanted a challenge, Ensign,” Chaff protests. “I already know all of this fucker’s moves.”

 

“And you know I’ll whip your bare ass,” Haymitch growls, but he takes the seat and Peeta leads me from the room as Chaff tosses back a rebuttal.

 

“You got a few letters wrong there, buddy. Gonna need you to  _ wipe _ my ass later.”

 

“We’re not that close, asshole. And stop milking the one hand thing. It’s getting you nowhere with the ladies. Or didn’t you notice? Sweetheart’s only got eyes for the boy. And you’re still married.”

 

“Only for another week.”

 

“Sorry about them,” Peeta says as we distance ourselves from the waiting room, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink. “Sailors can be a little rough around the edges.”

 

“You’re friends with principal Abernathy?” is all I can manage to ask.

 

“Not really,” Peeta explains. “I’ve only started to get to know him recently. After Chaff was injured. They’ve been good friends for years.”

 

“Oh,” I say, but really, he hasn’t explained anything. We stand in the hallway, his hands now in his pockets and me bouncing on the balls of my feet, the muted sounds of Chaff and Haymitch’s banter floating out of the open doorway towards us. Peeta draws in a deep breath and speaks first.

 

“How’ve you been?” I bite my lip and pluck at the hem of my coat. The simple question shouldn’t require such a complicated answer. Peeta seems to sense my reluctance. “Maybe something more simple. What brings you to Panem Memorial on this fine winter’s day?”

 

My lips curl up in a responding smile that matches his, but then I remember why I’m here and I frown.

 

“Visiting a girl I work with,” I say.

 

“Oh.” It’s Peeta’s turn to be speechless. Or maybe not. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. You wanna go grab some awful hospital food together?”

 

“Sure,” I say, because the truth is, I am suddenly very hungry.

 

We don’t talk while we’re in line, and I’m worried that I’ve truly ruined everything as we sit at our table, and yet, maybe he’s worried about the same thing.

 

“About the text messages...is there anything I should apologize for?”

 

“Nothing,” I tell him and a slow smile spreads across his lips. The rest tumbles out before I think better of it. “I liked them. It was...nice...to hear from you.”

 

We could leave it at that, but Peeta finds the words again to keep us going. Something simple and safe.

 

“Effie turned out to be a great help. She managed to negotiate the rent down enough so I can not only afford the water bill but also actually turn that second bedroom into an art studio.”

 

“You’re painting again?” I ask before I think about what I’m revealing. His fork halts halfway to his mouth and he stares at me while I blush and try to find an excuse. “You won some art thing back in school, didn’t you?”

 

“Second place,” he says. “How’d you remember that?”

 

I shrug and try to deflect. “I still don’t get how you can be pals with boozy principal Aber-nasty.”

 

“Wow,” he chuckles. “Let’s hope he never hears us call him that. I’m pretty sure he’d find a way to stick us back in detention.”

 

“Please, he wouldn’t hear it over the booze muffling his ears.”

 

I’m not sure why that works, but Peeta laughs and then somehow shifts us back into a comfortable conversation about his new place. He asks me if I’ve read any new books, but that makes me think of Glimmer and I know he can see it in my face. I try to steer it back away from me.

 

“So how did Chaff, um…”

 

“Lose his hand?” Peeta asks bluntly. “It’s okay; he knows it’s missing. You don’t have to waltz around his feelings. He actually does better if you joke about it.”

 

“So I noticed,” I say, remembering the bits I heard as we left the room. Peeta blushes inexplicably.

 

“Guess there’s a reason they call it ‘swearing like a sailor,’” Peeta says and sets his fork aside. He takes a deep breath, as though deciding to reveal something monumental. “Katniss, he lost his hand on our last cruise. On my watch.”

 

“Oh,” I say again, a little annoyed that I keep getting caught off guard by Peeta. He opens his mouth to speak but shuts it and picks his fork back up. I can tell something bothers him about it, though. My mind scrambles and somehow unearths things he said to me the day after the bachelor party.

 

“That doesn’t make you responsible,” I tell him, putting my hand over his to stop him from eating. Our gazes meet and I can tell he wants to believe me, but doesn’t.

 

“Yes it does,” he murmurs. “That’s how it works. It’s what it means to be an officer. Taking responsibility.”

 

“You can’t control accidents,” I say, an uncomfortable twinge wrenching my heart.

 

“What was that?” he says, his foot nudging mine under the table. But there’s no way Peeta could know. I never told anyone. The only people who know are my dead mother and the police who arrived on scene, and -- I guess he could know. Twelve doesn’t keep secrets very well, after all. Before I can bolt, Peeta drops his fork, sending it clattering to the tray and flips his hand beneath mine. Laces our fingers together, his steady grip keeping me at the table. “How’d you know it was an accident?”

 

“Lucky guess,” I say flippantly, lifting one shoulder and hoping that joking about it will make it easier, like it does for Chaff apparently.

 

“Humph. So, your co-worker?” Peeta asks gently. And even though I didn’t want him to know just days ago, when I knew he could use it against me, I’m just so tired of carrying all of this that I want to tell him. I want to confide in him and feel that lightness I did that night at the lake.

 

“A customer beat up on her pretty badly,” I tell him, whispering and leaning towards him so others can’t hear as I briefly describe her injuries to him.

 

“Fuck. That’s awful. Did she call the cops to report it?” he asks, his eyes narrowing when I shake my head.

 

“We’re billed as an entertainment firm because we’re escorts, providing dates,” I explain. “Technically, though, all of our services aren’t exactly legal. If we called the cops…” I wave my free hand in the air, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks. He does.

 

“It puts all of you at risk of losing your jobs or landing in jail,” he says, a surprising anger to his tone. “And yet some of those cops are customers already, aren’t they? Like Darius?”

 

All I can do in the face of his anger is nod. His hand grips mine and he glares at his tray.

 

“Katniss, I had no idea. I should’ve after that night at the Panem Arms, but I didn’t want to believe how deep and how twisted it is. Whoever he is, he shouldn’t be allowed to get away with something like this.”

 

“It’s not your doing,” I say with another shrug. I don’t comment on his desire for justice because simply wanting it won’t make it happen. “There’s more, though. He’s in the navy. Blonde hair, blue eyes, and...” I can’t even finish the description now that he’s in front of me.

 

“You thought it might’ve been me,” he says, his voice hollow.

 

“No, I didn’t. Jo thought it might’ve been you. I told her it couldn’t be.”

 

“Well how can you be so sure?” he asks me, surprising me with the sudden venom in his voice. “You know, they say there’s a cycle. A person whose parents hit them is more likely to hit someone else.”

 

My jaw drops open at his words. It’s the first we’ve openly talked about his mother’s treatment of him as a kid.

 

“His name is Cato,” I blurt out, desperate for him to  _ know _ I never thought it could be him. “She told us his name so none of the rest of us would see him.”

 

“Cato Roberts?” he asks, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t said anything as fire sparks in his eyes. Blue and impossible to control.

 

“You know him?”

 

“It’s a small navy,” Peeta says, letting go of my hand to saw at his chicken, which has probably gone cold by now, with his knife. “He graduated the Academy two years ahead of me. Yeah, I know him.”

 

We eat in silence and as the food disappears, I don’t want the night to end this way. It’s not much, actually it’s nothing. A false hope and a dead end, but I give it to him anyways, hoping it will turn our time back to pleasant.

 

“I tried to find another job. It didn’t work out.”

 

He chews thoughtfully and watches me a moment.

 

“It’s been a week since I last saw you?” he asks pointedly, and I burn with the shame of his implication. That I didn’t try hard enough. Who does he think he is, acting all superior? Everything he's gotten has been handed to him. 

 

But the truth is, I’m burning more with the shame that he’s right. One insult and I gave up, running right back to Gale and the familiar routine of what I’ve known and depended upon for years.

 

I tell him about the Home for Wayward Souls in a pathetic attempt to excuse myself, but the more I talk, the more I realize just how right he is. I barely tried. And how can I expect to succeed in something that Johanna claims has spectacular failure rates if I don't put in every last ounce of my energy. There’s so much more that I could’ve done. 

 

Instead of talking my way out of it, I talk my way into a few more possible paths to try, swirling my mashed potatoes instead of eating them as I ramble. It took me one night to fuck up my life but I’ve been stuck in it for years now. I won’t be able to fix it in a week. Peeta’s telling me that he’s accepted this. His first text after he left was telling me that he’ll continue to be my friend, no matter how long it takes. And he backed it up with messages meant to check on me and cheer me up but not overwhelm me. And I ignored them. I am despicable, but if he thinks it’s not too late, maybe it’s not.

 

And when I lift my gaze to meet Peeta’s again, I find my friend there. The one who wanted to know my favorite color and dubbed it “the deep stuff” to make me laugh. The one who is never afraid to call himself out on his own mistakes. The friend who showed up at my mother’s funeral just so I wouldn’t be alone. He knows it will be a struggle. And he’ll still be here with me. Now it’s my turn to accept it. 

 

I launch myself from my chair, and delight in the widening of his eyes right before my lips brush his cheek.

 

“What? What was that for?” he whispers as I drop back into my seat, my entire being warmed with a new sensation. Determination.

 

“For being a friend,” I say. “Even when I’m a stubborn dolt.”

 

“Oh, well, um. In that case, is it safe to presume you won’t be mad at me if there’s a surprise waiting for you at your place tonight?” he asks tentatively. “I kind of already had it sent over.”

 

***********************

 

As nice as it was to reconnect with Peeta and to see in person that his friendly texts were more than pretense, I am still dragging as I enter my building, a little wary of the surprise he mentioned.

 

“Another long day, Miss Everdeen?” Thom asks as he holds the door for me.

 

“Yes, Thom. I’ll be okay,” I murmur with a smile.

 

“Glad to hear it, but I have something that may help cheer you up,” he says as I swipe at my eyes and get my vision to start working normally again. I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying. Must be from the bitter cold outside. “Someone sent you a gift.”

 

He hands me a thick white envelope and I tear open the flap to pull out a simple white card with vaguely familiar writing on it.

 

_ I never meant to be a burden to you. Please accept this as my thanks and repayment for your kindness. You were the only person who gave me that proper homecoming after all, and I won't ever forget it. _

 

_ Your friend, _

_ Peeta _

 

“What is it, Thom?” I ask and he hefts a crate of fresh produce up from behind his desk.

 

“There's more. About a week’s worth of fresh groceries.”

 

And just like that, I'm in danger of crying again. Because he left not to get away from the prostitute but because he felt like he was a financial burden to me. Did he think that if he left it would lessen the strain on me and I could exist longer without working? He must’ve. And he didn’t say a word about it tonight other than a vague warning that there was a surprise waiting for me.

 

“I can help you upstairs with these if you'd like,” Thom offers.

 

“Thank you,” I say and Thom smiles at me.

 

We load the bags and crates onto the elevator and I hold the  _ Door Open  _ button while Thom slides everything out into my hallway. Once the groceries are piled up in my kitchen, Thom tips his hat at me and leaves without a word. Slowly, I unload my groceries, smiling at the box of peppermint tea Peeta included along with the bottle of maple syrup I told him was the nectar of the gods before dumping it all over both mine and his pancakes without his permission.

 

As I tuck away the last of the cold items into my freezer, my phone rings. I answer without checking the name, expecting Peeta’s warm voice to ensure that I received his gift.

 

“Hey there,” I greet cheerfully.

 

“Did you forget about me? It's not like you to be late.”

 

“Gale,” I say in shock and look up at my clock. I’d completely forgotten that we had a date tonight. “I had an emergency.”

 

“Is everything okay? You’re not hurt are you?”

 

“No, I’m fine. One of the girls ran into some trouble.” It’s only a partial lie, I tell myself, thinking of Johanna’s words about jealous men. I don’t think Gale would turn violent, but I also don’t want to risk Peeta’s friendship, and I still have no clear way out of this mess. 

 

“Oh well if that’s all. How soon can you be here?”

 

I’m stunned by his response.  _ That’s all? _ Glimmer’s battered face swims in my mind and I shake my head to clear it of the image.

 

“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper. He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly.

 

“I see. And what the fuck am I supposed to do with this hard on, Catnip? I’m fucking throbbing for you.”

 

I sit on my couch and give the rest of the groceries a quick, regretful glance. I guess I’ll just have to deal with them later. This isn’t the first time Gale’s jerked off to my voice. He once called during the middle of the day, saying he’d been stuck in a frustrating meeting all morning with his boss riding his ass and he couldn’t get away from the office. But he needed a fast and hard fuck. So I talked and he rubbed one out.

 

“Well, Tiger, maybe you should start by getting a grip on yourself,” I tell him in what I hope is my flirtatious voice. And I hate myself for not hanging up on him.

 

************************

 

I wear no makeup this time as I make my way across town back to the Home for Wayward Souls. I am bolstered by Peeta’s certainty in me and the desperation in Johanna’s eyes as she smashed me into a wall and urged me to unfuck my life. Yesterday.

 

And yet, as I approach the building, years of piled up fears press down on my shoulders until I’m panting and a strange man is asking me if I’m alright. I hear the voice of every man I’ve fucked in his question and bolt across the street to a store, halting as I enter and the yeasty aroma of fresh breads, sweet creams, vanilla, and cinnamon, smacks me in the face. I gasp audibly. Pathetically.

 

“Are you alright, miss?” The voice is deep and comforting and I’m half expecting it to be Peeta in this place where the scents all make me think of him. When I finally look at the person behind the counter, one arm braced on top of the glass display cases as he looks at me, I ache with disappointment. Peeta’s not a baker anymore. He’s a naval officer.

 

And the man behind the counter, although he’s dressed in the familiar creamy colors and apron of a baker, he’s not Peeta. This man is towering and not broad so much as hulking, with warm brown skin and concerned brown eyes. His nametag reads  _ Thresh.  _ I take a shuddering breath and push myself off the door so I stop blocking it. I swipe at my eyes and try to smile at him, but I can tell from his expression that it falls short.

 

“I’m fine,” I tell him and he nods slowly, clearly not believing me. Maybe he’s used to desperate girls ducking in here, given the bakery’s proximity to the place where wayward souls go to seek help. I order a scone and a loaf of bread just to keep him from asking any more questions. Sitting at one of the tables by the window, I nibble on my scone and watch the home across the way.

 

While I eat, it occurs to me that if they’re serious in their goals, they’d have resources to help the girls find decent jobs once they reach eighteen. They’d have to. Otherwise their work would be a waste. Maybe I’m far past the age of eighteen, but I have a decent amount of money. I can pay them for their help. I don’t need their charity so much as their leads. And I hear Peeta’s voice, so certain that I could find a way out or make one out of nothing. Even now, he’s helping me.

 

Gathering up the bag with my loaf of bread in it, I march back across the street and into the home. I am assaulted once more by the sounds of loud talking and the smell of bleach as soon as I enter. I blanche at it and cough as I adjust. The same woman sits behind the desk, this time cutting strips of paper. Perhaps for a craft for some of the younger girls. I think sadly about the need for such a place for anyone of that age, but I am grateful they fill the need. That I was closer to being an adult than a child when I first went to Cray.

 

She glances up at me and must recognize me because she sighs and shakes her head. “Listen, lady, I already told you--”

 

Desperation and anger gather inside of me. I wonder why there wasn’t a place like this in Twelve. We sure could’ve used it. All we had was an orphanage filled with kids with hollow cheeks and hollow eyes and marks on their bodies like the ones Peeta’s mother used to leave on his. A place to shove the unwanted and forget about them until they turned eighteen and were on their own. And even though I’m an adult, I think I fit the bill of people they’re aiming to help here. I glare at the plaque over her head that reads: Kindness, charity, and forgiveness are the root of all Hope.

 

What a bunch of bullshit.

 

I think of Johanna and how she isn’t afraid to say what she thinks and how sometimes it’s crass but sometimes, it’s what people need to hear.

 

“My name is Katniss Everdeen,” I say in a much stronger voice this time and instantly garnering the woman’s attention. She clamps her mouth shut and glares at me. “My home is in District Twelve. And by that, I mean my parents and my only sister are all buried there. I’m twenty-three years old and I’ve been a prostitute since I was sixteen. I got  _ lucky _ and landed a job as an escort eventually, but we both know that despite the five hundred dollar coat, I’m still just a glorified whore. I’m tired and I’m numb and I want out. All I need is some help finding a job with someone who doesn’t mind hiring a slut if they can prove they’ll work hard, and I can do that. But right now, I work for a man with ties in most of the reputable employment agencies in town and if I go to them, my ass will be back on the street long before I’ve got a job. And my only marketable skill is getting a man to scream as he cums in less than a minute with my mouth on his dick. Now I have a decent amount of money I’ve saved up, so I can compensate your organization for any help you give me but what I don’t have are the contacts or the resources. So if your pious ass can’t recognize someone in need then take that damn sign down.”

 

I point at the sign just long enough to get her to look at it and spin on my heel. I’m halfway to the door before I remember the loaf of bread in my hands. I spin back around and the woman’s eyes widen as I stalk towards her. I plunk it down on the desk in front of her.

 

“I brought this for your girls. Make sure the kitchen gets it.”

 

My hand is on the door when she calls out to me.

 

“Wait! Katherine, was it?”

 

I halt as all the fight drains out of me and I face her again, repeating my name so she gets it right. She takes in my expression and maybe she sees just how tired I really am, because she nods slowly and fumbles on her desk for something. A book that she flips through.

 

“Here, fill this out, and I’ll see what I can do. There could be a few possible openings with some of our usual employers. They might be wanting someone with more maturity, but I have to warn you. We may not be able to help you at all.” I narrow my eyes at her, but take the form. “Look, Miss Everdeen. You said you’re an escort. And you’re wearing some very fine clothes. We help girls who’d be homeless and starving without us, so the jobs we’ll likely be able to help you find probably won’t cover what you’re used to making.”

 

“I’ve nearly starved before; I can survive it again,” I tell her and fill out the form as she continues her earlier project, glancing up at me occasionally. In my head, I’m selling jewels and perfumes and cringing at the realization that she’s probably right. If I do this, I will either be on the brink of starvation again or I really will make myself dependent on Gale.

 

But I need to do this. I’m not sure why I’m surviving anymore, but if I want to continue, I have to start somewhere, and this is my best lead yet.

 

My hand shakes as I read back over the completed form and stare at one of the simplest questions, which I left blank.  _ Preferred name.  _  Right beneath my real name. I scribble a new one in the blank space.  _ Katy Green _ . It’s innocent and young, not the name of a whore and not one that anyone would comment on. Utterly forgettable. Then I give the completed form to her and she smiles at me, sudden kindness in her eyes.

 

“You know, if this works out for you, maybe you’d like to help us open up an adult help section of some kind. For others like yourself.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” I say, but I don’t tell her she’s being premature. I’m still a hooker. I have a paying client tomorrow night. A regular who wants to keep paying me and clothe me and house me just so I keep fucking him unbeknownst to his wife. The scone curdles in my stomach and I race out of there.

 

As I leave, though, I stop on the slush covered sidewalk and look across the street once more. The baker across the way is standing next to one of the tables, laughing with a customer, his hands dusted with flour. And something strange happens. 

 

The sun has sunk below the skyline since I went into the Home for Wayward Souls. Orange street lamps create pockets of light on the snow dusted sidewalks. A swift breeze cuts down the street, swirling up a few flakes of the snow piled in the gutters and dancing in the golden warmth spilling from the bakery’s windows. And for the first time in ages, I feel hopeful. Maybe they won’t find me a job. But I have to start somewhere. Perhaps it will be a long hike back down this twisted road I’ve taken my life on, but I think there are a few people, both alive and dead, who would be proud of me for taking the first step, and maybe even as relieved as I am. 

 

I think of Peeta. His words that I wanted to ignore until I no longer could. Suddenly, I want to call him. To tell him the news because I think he’d actually be happy for me.

 

As I stand at the bus stop, though, I know that a phone call isn’t enough. So I wait for the orange line and ride towards the edges of downtown. I am light as a feather as I make my way down the streets to Victoria Lane Inn and march with purpose up to the desk of the concierge.

 

“How may I help you, Miss?” she asks with a cheerful smile.

 

“I believe you have a guest here, Peeta Mellark?” I ask.

 

“Yes. Can I call his room for you?”

 

“Please,” I say. “Tell him that Katniss is here to see him.”

 

As she dials the room and speaks to Peeta, I eavesdrop and second guess myself. I don’t know if Peeta can be friends with Gale’s mistress. If I can juggle a friend and a client like this against Johanna’s warnings. I don’t know if this new effort to free myself of Plutarch and the firm’s grasp will work out. So many uncertainties batter my brain as the concierge hangs up and smiles at me.

 

“He’s in room 451 and is expecting you,” she extends her hand towards a bank of elevators and I race past it to the stairwell, taking them two at a time and buying myself precious seconds to figure out what to say to him. 

 

In the end, it doesn’t matter. He’s waiting in the open doorway, his hands in his pockets and a bright smile just for me. I fling myself at him and he grunts in surprise. But his arms are around me in an instant and oh, how good it feels. The warmth of his breath collides with the skin on my neck in a steady cadence, blanketing me in a rare comfort that only he seems able to give me.

 

No one else’s arms have made me feel this way. I am standing not in the rain or the snow or the cold, nor even in a hotel hallway, but in the warmth of the sun and the hope of the stars and the comfort of the moon.

 

“All this over a few groceries?” he asks teasingly and I smile and laugh past the tears threatening to ruin the moment.

 

“No,” I choke out the single word, but can’t explain the rest. Not yet. I’ll find the words later, but for now, I’m content to feel his arms around me again and to know that they’re still as strong and steady as I remember. 

 

************************

 

I follow every lead the Home for Wayward Souls throws me. Cecilia, the woman behind the desk, and I become familiar with one another. I turn in applications to several places, following Cecilia’s advice on wording everything to make myself appear in a more flattering light than I normally would. _Prostitute_ _with seven years of experience_ isn’t exactly a glowing recommendation.

 

Gale cancels one of our appointments without giving a reason, but I find that I don't mind. It allows me to focus on searching for a job. And to ignore the pang of guilt I feel every time I meet up with Peeta at the hospital after I’ve visited Glimmer and he listens attentively to updates about my search. I should tell him about Gale, but things are going so well between us that I’m afraid Johanna’s warning will come true. Some nights, we’ll leave the hospital and eat dinner together as well and it’s such a luxury sharing the frustrations of my day with him over a warm meal. It reminds me of the magic that a full belly provides. A content happiness few other things can.

 

I hand an application in at the public library, secretly hoping that this is the one that will get me hired, and then I lose myself in the stacks, running my fingers over the spines. So many worlds to escape into, so many sources of knowledge. I pick up a random book and educate myself on ancient ships powered by the wind, something I’ve never held any interest in before. Just because I can.

 

Eventually, Cecilia finds me an interview with a family seeking a nanny. I’m not sure that kids are my forte, but I dress conservatively and tug on my hiking boots to meet the mother. She agreed on a public location, my favorite park. There’s only one family playing and a few elderly couples walking the perimeter when I arrive. As I approach the woman seated on a bench, watching a trio of rowdy dark-haired boys, I nearly choke on my heart as it shoves its way to the top of my throat. 

 

I’ve seen her before. Framed in gold and a billowing wedding veil studded with diamonds, smiling at me from the surface of Gale’s desk as he slid his dick between my squeezed together tits and spewed his cum on my chest.

 

Confusion and panic reign, and those are the two emotions I cannot afford to show right now.

 

“Hello!” Madge Hawthorne waves to me and I scramble to look like I’m not the whore fucking her husband behind her back but a reputable candidate to take care of her children instead. I don’t understand why the name Cecilia gave me was different. Margaret Undersee. “You must be Katy.”

 

She stands and brushes dirt from the seat of her coat. It’s a soft minty green color, fluffy ermine ringing her neck in a collar that could’ve fed my entire family for a year. Her honey blonde hair in a perfect coif and kept warm under a knit cap. Then her gloved hand extends towards me and I want to run. There’s a kindred sadness and weariness in her blue eyes that draws me in instead, or maybe I’m imagining it there behind the lies and the deceit and the knowledge that her marriage is as much of a charade as my job is.

 

So I smile and take her hand and hate myself more than is reasonable.

 

“Yes, nice to meet you, Mrs. Hawthorne.” It slips out and I try not to show her that I know I’ve already messed up.

 

“Oh please, don’t. Didn’t they tell you? I go by my maiden name still -- Undersee.”

 

“Ms. Undersee, then,” I correct myself and she widens her smile. The expression appears forced, though.

 

“It’s fine, really. I kept it for professional reasons but I should probably change it for everything else since it’s been such a source of strife. I just...seem to be waiting for a sign.”

 

I’m clueless as to what that means and she must realize that because she forces an even wider smile and starts the interview.

 

“So, Katy, tell me about your experience with children.”

 

I scramble to recover my aplomb and tell her about practically raising Prim since my parents both worked long hours, double shifts, sometimes multiple jobs. Be honest, Cecilia urged me. Honest but discrete. As I answer Madge’s questions, I tell myself that all I have to do is get through this interview and walk away graciously when I don’t get the job, politely decline it if I do.

 

“Cecilia recommended you quite highly, and while I do wish you had a little more formal experience, I’m close to desperate. This might only be a temporary position anyways. I can’t really promise you a specific timeframe, but I’m guessing with your background, you understand.”

 

“My background?” I ask, dumbly latching on to the most potentially damaging part of her speech.

 

“With the Home,” she says lightly, tilting her head to examine me closely. “I think what they do is marvelous but I know it means you must’ve come from someplace rather difficult. Unsettled.”

 

_ You have no idea, _ I think, at the same time, marvelling at her understanding. She has to know that either I was once a prostitute or was on the brink of becoming one. And yet, she’s willing to give me a chance. 

 

And just like that, she’s made this whole thing so much worse. I can’t be friendly with this woman during the day and fuck her husband’s brains out at night. I can’t take care of their children with a smile on my face in one hour and then suck his dick dry the next. It was easier to dismiss her when she was nothing more than a face in a frame and a curse on Gale’s tongue. This is a disaster and I have no way to delicately extricate myself without giving away everything.

 

My silence allows her to continue. She tucks her hands in her pockets and sighs.

 

“If you’re going to be taking care of our children, you need to know that things between Mr. Hawthorne and myself are not...ideal. We’ve been drifting apart for some time now and he’s grown a little more hostile lately. I moved myself and the children into the city to be closer to him. He keeps an apartment for most weeknights when he works late and can’t get home at a reasonable time. Lately, that’s happened more and more often. I thought that he might need his family to support him through some difficult transitions at his work, but he hasn’t been as happy to see us as I expected.”

 

“Maybe he needs some time to adjust to the change,” I suggest, despising the lie even as it rolls off my tongue as smooth as curdled cream.

 

I try to put myself in her shoes. Married with children, struggling to keep a family together. Knowing that it’s falling apart before her eyes and yet not knowing why. So quiet and kind with an understated bravery in the way she carries herself and the disaster of her home life. I hate that I can’t hate her at all. 

 

Madge smiles gratefully at me and I keep my jaw clamped shut against the guilt that’s driving me to tell her the truth, regardless of the consequences. She should know the battle she’s fighting.

 

“That is possible. It means the boys are starting new schools, though, and there are changes for everyone. For me, I’ve decided to start working again.”

 

“Oh? What do you do?” I ask, stomping down hard on the stab of jealousy at her ease about employment and self-assurance that she can leave it and then waltz right back into it.

 

“I’m a musician,” she says with a proud smile. “A pianist and harpist. I used to play with the Panem Symphony before I married Gale, then we had Orion so fast after that. I was only eighteen.”

 

One of the boys pops his head up from their game to wave at his mother. She beams and I try not to vomit.

 

“That’s Orion, my oldest. Virgo and Taurus are my twins. Virgo is the middle boy, the one in the brown coat. And then Taurus is the one in gray.”

 

“Constellations,” I say as my phone buzzes in my pocket and I ignore it. I don’t dare pull it out when it could be Gale. Madge talks wages and dates and school drop-off procedures. Pre-school for the twins, kindergarten for the oldest. I pretend to absorb it all, thinking as she talks that there is no way I’ll be able to explain a luxury apartment with a chef and a housekeeper on a nanny’s salary, and oh fuck! What if Madge decides she wants me to be a live-in nanny? And what am I even thinking? I can't take this job. It would be stupid. Suicidal even.

 

Hysterical laughter forms in my chest and I squeeze it down tight and secure as I shake her hand and tell her that I will check my interview schedule (another lie) and get back to her about a trial this Thursday -- taking the boys to school and picking them up, preparing a snack and helping them with their homework. Right before I’m supposed to meet their father at his apartment to let him fuck me. I guess that date is now cancelled too or Gale is out of his damn mind.

 

_ Get out of here and respectfully back out of it in two days. Don’t think about how that leaves her in a jam, it’s not your problem, _ I repeat to myself as I take my leave of her. It’s better than continuing to tear her family and her marriage apart.

 

I don’t make it home before the manic laughter and the vomit make an appearance and I have to duck into a cafe and soil their bathroom. My phone continues to buzz and when I finally see the name, a black rage fills me. I backtrack, blind to where I am but instinctively knowing I’m in the right place. I storm past his secretary, ignoring her protests. She knows who the fuck I am and why I’m here.

 

“I was beginning to worry. You didn’t answer my calls,” Gale says as I shut the door and he starts to unbuckle his belt. He falters as he takes in my appearance. “What are you wearing?”

 

“Something appropriate for the nanny of the Undersee-Hawthorne children to wear,” I spit out as the rage burns bright and hot in my chest. It doesn’t matter that Gale’s been good to me. That he probably would’ve continued to be so had I not met his wife and his three sons today.

 

“What are you talking about, Catnip?”

 

“I just interviewed to be your nanny,” I snarl, slamming my palms down on the desk and then spotting the picture of his wife. I pick it up and thrust it in his face. “Do you know, she was  _ nice _ to me?”

 

“You’re not making sense. Why the hell are you interviewing to be our nanny?”

 

“Oh I don’t know,” I say, carefully setting the picture back down. “I thought it’d be the perfect cliche and the perfect cover rolled into one, right? Then I could still be in your apartment and blow you in the pantry while the kids are taking their nightly bath and their mother is blissfully and ignorantly performing Mozart at Panem Symphonic Hall, and then I’d not only be your whore at your beck and call, but also the nanny the father is screwing. Either way, I destroy at least five lives including my own. Possibly six if you're not actually a cold-hearted prick. Wraps it up nicely, don’t you think?”

 

“She showed up two days ago with the kids. I had no idea she was planning--”

 

“Shut up, Gale! I can’t take your offer. Can’t be your mistress. I’m trying to find a way out of this life, don’t you see? Madge -- your  _ wife _ \-- is the first person who’s given me a real, honest chance at that, and I can’t even take it! How sick is that?”

 

I don’t care that I’m screaming or that spit is flying from my lips or that his secretary can probably hear every word. Gale glares at me and surges up from his chair, but I’m so lost in fury that I reach over the desk and shove him back down. He’s just shocked enough to take the fall. Still swirling in the hurricane of my fury and disgust, I turn away from him and swoop towards my exit.

 

“What about us, Catnip? I thought you loved me.”

 

I freeze and billow in rage and torment as Peeta’s drunken rant about how I create illusions to make men think they’re desirable or good lovers twists in my veins and the consequences of my life threaten to batter what’s left of my carefully held resolve to a useless pulp.

 

“I never said that I loved you,” I remind him. I stop again at the door, needing to say one more thing to him. I tilt my head enough to see him but not look at him directly. It’s time to stop running and hiding.

 

“Keep your damn money and use it for something worthwhile instead.”

 

“Like what?” he says bitterly.

 

“You really wish you’d stayed in Twelve and things were different? Then use it to help other girls not turn out like me. There’s a place called the Home for Wayward Souls. Madge knows about it. Look into it. Charitable donations are tax deductible after all. She’d never even have to know who gave you the idea. And maybe try to fix your marriage instead of running from it.”

 

His expression shatters and I walk away, holding my head high and pretending that I’m not shattering at the same time.

  
************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hi there *awkward wave.* Okay, so I really want to hear what you all think of this. I know, I know, I said Gale’s not the villain and he looks really bad in this chapter. Fear not, he’s going to show up once more without the angst that surrounds him and Katniss in this one. Aaaaaand, if you’re still here waiting for the Everlark to pick up, I have good news for you. Chapter 5 is written and in the process of editing. I am terrible at predicting fic length until I get most of the way through it, but at this point, I believe we’re looking at two more lengthy chapters and one not so lengthy chapter. I’ve been wrong before, though! Thank you for reading and for all of your lovely comments.
> 
> Many thanks to peetbreadgirl for editing and not throwing anything at me. She says I’m 60% forgiven for making her suffer! Yay! Let’s see if I can get to 70% with the next chapter, yes?


	5. Chapter 5

It starts snowing when I’m somewhere around three blocks from my apartment. A few scattered flurries that quickly turn into an onslaught. A deluge of pure white that melts the instant it hits the pavement. My rage and indignation only lasts until the fall becomes so thick that I can barely see where I am going. That’s when the panic pushes its way back to the surface.

 

While my head is aware that there was no way Gale could’ve known that I’d be one of his wife’s interviewees, that he didn’t even know I was seeking some form of legitimate employment, I can't seem to separate him from those moments of pure terror and embarrassment I felt in Madge’s presence. From the scathing self-loathing and unbearable awkwardness that comes from being the other woman. For my having to refuse what could’ve been an otherwise perfect opportunity and turning it into a nightmare instead. 

 

Then there’s his wife. Madge. I can’t get over how  _ nice _ she was, even as she sensed the collapse of her world. I admire that sort of substance, the quiet kindness that refuses to bend towards cruelty even in the face of it. People like that tend to work their way under my skin and root there. Like Peeta did.

 

Or her courage in packing up her family and moving into the heart of the city with the sole purpose of saving her marriage. It makes me think that she loves Gale, has always loved him, and the guilt over the part I played in the destruction of her life threatens to overwhelm me. It never occurred to me before that my job -- that  _ I _ \-- was hurting anyone but myself. 

 

But I wasn’t alone in causing the destruction. And like this snow, the consequences keep piling up in my head. I know that I shouldn’t be alone right now. Or maybe I just really need someone to tell me that it will be okay. Even if it’s a lie.

 

Peeta? Or Johanna?

 

Only one of them can truly understand what I’m facing, and twenty minutes later, I’m seated in a corner booth, holding a mug of coffee in my shaking hands and blowing on the surface, watching the ripples as Johanna watches me. I can hear the gears of her mind churning. When the first sip of my drink scalds my tongue, I set the mug down but hold onto it, hoping maybe I will find answers in the espresso depths as I tell her everything that’s happened with the Home and Madge and Gale. She is shockingly silent through my recitation. Remains silent after I am done. And I am too much of a coward to look at her.

 

“Say something,” I murmur before I try another tentative sip of my drink.

 

Her hands pass her mug back and forth across the surface of the table, scraping in a rhythmic tune of thought. Every now and then, she’ll shake her head, like she’s rejecting an idea.

 

“Damn, Kat. What are you going to do?” she finally asks as her hands still. I swallow and analyze my options. None of them are very good.

 

“My period is supposed to start tomorrow. I thought I’d take only jobs that want companionship for the next two weeks. It means maybe lying about being late, but Plutarch can’t argue too much with routine health care,” I murmur. It’s our code for when we’re on our period. My idea is flimsy at best, but I can’t go back to taking clients. And I can’t afford to arouse Plutarch’s suspicions too much more. Jo’s face creases as she rubs one finger up and down the side of her nose.

 

“It’s not bad. Two weeks might not be long enough, though.”

 

“Probably not. I could pad that another week with a fake UTI.”

 

“Or you could let me punch you in the face,” Johanna says, snorting at her own morbid joke before she takes a deep gulp of her coffee. “You can’t fake an illness. He’s buddies with our doctors. Would Sailor be willing to help?”

 

“I don’t want to drag him into this,” I tell her as I cringe. Besides, I can’t beg Peeta to pay for me. He doesn’t have that much money himself.

 

We toss ideas around until Jo’s phone reminds her of an appointment and she stands to leave.

 

“I know you’re tired, Kat, but we’re the ones who can survive anything they throw at us, remember? You might have to start taking clients like normal again, so Plutarch doesn’t get antsy.”

 

With that, I am left with a cold and half drunk coffee, a headache, and a boat load of regrets. An ache in my chest not unlike the night I started taking clients again and Peeta sat powerless to stop it in my apartment. My head spins and I think I might pass out, unable to take a breath. Inch by inch, starting with my fingers, I force myself to relax, although I fear that if I let go of my rigidity, I will shatter into a million pieces.

 

I can’t go back to that. I thought maybe I could, but the very idea makes me want to scream without end until something breaks. It’s no good. My initial idea was the best we came up with and my own phone has been vibrating in my coat pocket most of the time I’ve spent in here. Finally, I dig up the courage to check it.

 

The string of messages from Gale range from livid to contrite. It’s a dizzying array of emotions and several of them hit right where it hurts me the most. For some reason, I think of what he said to me that first day he offered the apartment and all of the strings attached to it. About wishing he’d stayed in Twelve. I try to imagine it, the girl and the boy who were vaguely friends because of their parents. Maybe we would’ve become more than friends had he stayed instead of racing off to find his future. Maybe he would’ve held me as I buried my father and my sister. Maybe he would've stood by me through evictions and poverty and near starvation. But the truth is, he didn’t. The girl and the boy grew up too fast and both failed at their lives. Whatever we could have been, it never had a chance. So I delete and then block his number.

 

************************

 

Over the next few days, I continue visiting Glimmer, often lining up the times I’m there with when Peeta is visiting Chaff. When I see him at the hospital, Peeta can tell that something is wrong. 

 

“How’s the job search?” he asks one night as he packs up the chess set and I return the books that have gathered in Glimmer’s room to the bookshelf.

 

“Not great,” I say with a shrug. I try to brush off his concerned look, but it’s getting to me, and Peeta can tell.

 

“You’ll find something,” he says and I repress the urge to laugh bitterly at his optimism.

 

“How can you be so sure?” I ask instead. He latches the box closed on the chess set and shoves his hands in his pockets.

 

“I’ve seen what you can survive,” he says. He has no idea, though, the timeline hanging over my head or the possibility that I’m just fooling myself. That my first disastrous interview with Madge is a sign of things to come. “It’s not gonna happen overnight.”

 

“No,” I sigh and toss the last book on top of the shelf instead of neatly putting it away. “It’s not gonna happen at all if I keep wasting my time here.”

 

“You’re helping a friend,” Peeta points out. “That’s a good thing to do.”

 

“Glimmer’s not a friend. I barely know her.”

 

“Still, you’re here visiting with her and reading to her every other day.”

 

“I like reading,” I argue.

 

“Yeah, sure, Katniss. That’s what it is. Purely selfish on your part.”

 

I wish he’d stop assigning virtues to me that I don’t have. I’m visiting Glimmer because...I have no idea why I’m doing it. I glare at Peeta and he smiles at me, then he steps close. I don’t move, hoping I can catch just a whiff of that slightly cinnamon and soap scent of his.

 

“You talk tough, but you’re not cold-hearted. You never have been. But I think you want people to believe you are because then they can’t hurt you. Admit it, Katniss. You’re being  _ nice  _ to someone.”

 

“I’m a whore, Peeta. I don’t have the luxury of being nice.”

 

“And yet, you keep doing it,” he says. But he’s wrong. I wasn’t being nice when I made him pay for our night at the lake. I wasn’t being nice the day I left him in Twelve.

 

I don’t get the chance to argue, though, because a custodian bustles into the room and starts cleaning. The stench of disinfectant drives us from the room and out of the hospital. Out on the street, Peeta pauses to pull me into an embrace. We stand there with snow swirling around our ankles and the sounds of traffic a distant dream. We’ve been lining up our visits to Chaff and Glimmer so that we leave the hospital at the same time most days. Usually, Peeta will suggest that we grab dinner together. When we step apart, though, he lifts my gloved hand to his mouth and kisses the backs of my fingers.

 

“See you soon, Katniss,” he says, and walks away before I have a chance to respond.

 

“See you soon,” I tell the snow.

 

It’s probably better anyways. I’m spending too much time with him, getting my hopes up, and that will only make the crash worse when it finally happens. Now, like Madge I just seem to be waiting for a sign as to what I should do next. I shiver and shove my hands into my pockets before boarding a bus to the Home for Wayward Souls.

 

When I enter, a few girls wave at me on their way to the gymnasium. I’m still learning their names. They somehow already know mine.

 

“Hey, Miss Katniss!”

 

“Hi, girls,” I return the wave and continue on my way to Cecilia’s desk. She blinks and sets down the hat she’s knitting.

 

“Just the lady I wanted to talk to,” she says and I take a deep breath. I know I need to answer to her.

 

“I turned down the job with Margaret Undersee because of a conflict of interests,” I tell her quickly. I’ve rehearsed the line for a few days now, my best option for keeping both the innocent and the guilty safe. Cecilia frowns at me.

 

“I don’t understand. How could you have a conflict of interest with -- oh.” She says the last quietly and I can’t bring myself to look at her, but I know that she’s figured it out.

 

“I understand if you can’t work with me anymore,” I tell her. This isn’t how I want this to end and I keep going before I lose my courage. “I realize that you took a risk on me, and my case presents a challenge you don’t face with the girls, so--”

 

“Katniss, I’m not gonna boot you out over this.”

 

“You’re not?” I ask, my head snapping up.

 

“No,” she says, standing up and walking around the desk towards me. “Besides, there are a few girls who we do face this with. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

 

Then her arms are around me and I stand there, completely rigid.

 

“That must have been so uncomfortable,” she murmurs. 

 

I blink as her hands rub over my back, a comforting touch. I choke back a sob as I think of my mother. About how much I wished she had held me like this after Prim and my father died. How much I longed for some motherly affection. For her to notice that when she fell apart, she left me with no choice but to destroy myself too. Maybe it’s Cecilia’s graying blonde hair, so like my mother’s. Maybe it’s that I’ve seen her interact with the girls who live here. Or maybe it’s because I am desperate for some sign of forgiveness or absolution even though I know I don’t deserve it. But I let her hold me.

 

“We’ll keep looking, okay?” she says. I nod and manage to hold back the tears. Finally returning her embrace.

 

************************

 

I exist on autopilot through two more interviews that Cecilia wrangles for me, one with an Uptown florist and another with an accounting firm as a mail clerk. I harbor no real hope that they will lead anywhere. She agrees to keep my secret in regards to Gale, if only because it is a secret with the potential to destroy. I accept a couple clients who explicitly state in the job request that they do not want it all. Flirting can be harmless, right? I can manage that, although those jobs make significantly less money. The rest of the job offers that come through, I decline. It’s a risk, but I need to buy a little time and save my best excuses, even if they’re lies, for when Plutarch starts seeking answers for my strange behavior.

 

Starting with the gifts from Gale, I begin the slow process of selling what I don’t need in order to pad my savings for the lean days ahead. Glimmer and Jo provide names of good buyers in town. The purse goes first, along with a black velvet choker and it’s single diamond charm that he gave me for my birthday one year.

 

It’s about week after I end things with Gale, on the day that Peeta’s time off ends, that Plutarch catches on and my fragile hopes truly begin to crumble.

 

“Kat, my dear girl, you’ve not been a very active employee lately. We need to meet to discuss. Tomorrow at noon, the Mockingbirds Club. If you don’t return my call to reschedule, I’ll expect to see you there.”

 

I delete the message from Plutarch and shove my phone in my pocket, turning back towards the shelf of books in front of me. Even though Glimmer is doing better, I still visit her often and read to her. We’ve made it through most of the waiting room books and I’ve started bringing several from the public library on my past few visits. I came here tonight to select a few so she has options since I’ve discovered that, like me, her tastes range pretty far and wide. But ultimately, her favorites are plays. I check out with my small stack just as my phone vibrates against my hip. Juggling the books, I answer when I see Jo’s name.

 

“I’m visiting Glimmer before my appointment with Cinna. You’re coming too. Be at the hospital in ten,” she hangs up before I can answer, and I know she must be pissed at me over something. I am dropped in a stinking vat of guilt. Plutarch’s probably been questioning her relentlessly about me. And she’s no doubt been covering my ass with him despite the fact that she warned me this could happen.

 

Although I arrive first, I don’t even have time to explain to Glimmer why I’m there a day early before Johanna enters and plops onto the bed, turning Glimmer’s face for an inspection.

 

“I can’t stay. Just came by to see how you’re doing.”

 

“Better,” Glimmer says in a voice still hoarse from misuse, quiet because she can barely open her jaw. They talk for a few minutes and then Jo jerks her head towards the door.

 

“Kat’s coming with me, Glimmer. She’ll see you tomorrow. Get some rest.” It’s not a request. As short as Jo is, I still have a hard time keeping up with her as we wind our way towards the front door of the hospital. She is propelled by fury. 

 

“You’ve already made things a fucking shit show, Brainless. Don’t make it any worse. You’re lucky Plutarch waited this long to demand a luncheon and answers from you. You’re gonna have to go back to taking clients for real.”

 

“I’m doing everything I can,” I insist.

 

“Shut up,” she hisses, halting suddenly and pulling me into the open door of an empty lounge.

 

“No, I won’t. Plutarch can’t --”

 

“Shut  _ up _ , Brainless!” Jo says, covering my mouth with her hand and jerking her head back around the corner. 

 

Confused, I move with her as she peeks around the edge and my heart thumps oddly at the sight of Peeta in his uniform. The khaki one he told me was for general duties. He’s standing at the finances desk, another sailor in uniform beside him and I gasp.

 

Blonde hair, ice blue eyes, tall and muscular. He towers at least a foot over Peeta, his arrogant sneer twisting his features into a grotesque mask. His fists clench at his sides as Peeta waves towards the woman behind the desk. She shakes her head, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. 

 

“I can’t release patient names unless you’re family or on our list of visitors for her,” she rushes through the words.

 

“That’s fine, ma’am. We don’t need to know her name. My friend here is just going to pay for the bill. All of it.”

 

“Her name is fucking shit for brains slut,” the other sailor rasps. The woman cringes but Peeta seems unaffected.

 

“I--I can’t do that, sir. The young lady in question hasn’t checked out yet. Her bill isn’t finalized.”

 

“Lady,” the sailor snorts. “She couldn’t pass for a lady in the fucking slums of District Six.”

 

Jo and I both draw in quick, angry breaths at the same time. Peeta, however, remains polite and unphased.

 

“That’s fine, Ma’am,” he continues, ignoring Cato’s rant. “Is there a way to pay in advance in your system? You could estimate what the final bill would be for us and he can just pay that.”

 

“I--I think I can manage that,” she stumbles, clicking on her computer as her gaze jumps between the screen and the two sailors in front of her.

 

“I didn’t fucking agree to this, Mellark,” Cato snaps, but Peeta casually leans against the counter and eyes him carefully.

 

“Well there’s nothing that says you  _ have _ to compensate her for the physical damage caused by your fists to her face since she didn’t press charges. But you know,” he taps one finger thoughtfully on his lips, “Captain Lyme isn’t real fond of sailors who commit assault, especially not against women. I mean, there’s that transfer to submarines you’ve got hanging in the balance and the letter of reprimand for using your authority inappropriately with Seaman Holmes over a wager that’s still sitting in Commander Cresta’s drawer--”

 

“It’s your word against mine, Mellark. You don’t have any proof.”

 

“Don’t need any,” Peeta says with a shrug. “They both trust me.”

 

“Are you threatening me?” Cato growls, leaning in towards Peeta as the woman behind the desk scoots her chair back, as though trying to get herself out of the line of fire.

 

“If you’re just now realizing that, Roberts, you haven’t got the brain cells to ExO a pig boat. Guess that makes you the real shit for brains.”

 

Cato lunges and a scream of warning lodges in my throat, but Peeta dodges Cato’s fist. His foot sweeps out and knocks both of Cato’s out from under him. Cato topples, landing a sloppy kick to Peeta’s shin before his chin hits the desk, snapping his head back. Then his arms are behind his back, twisted up painfully as Peeta lifts him and slams his torso onto the desk, secures him in a hold and lowers himself to snarl in Cato’s ear.

 

“If you want that transfer, if you want that reprimand shredded in six months like Commander promised it would be, as long as you behave yourself, then you pay the fucking bill. All of it. Because bashing in anyone’s face isn’t gonna pass her standards on behaving yourself. Regardless of the reasons. And be glad I haven’t called Shore Patrol on your ass for trying to strike a fellow officer. Twice today alone.”

 

“Fuck you, Mellark,” Cato says, his words distorted by the desk in his face.

 

“I’ll take that as your agreement,” Peeta says, loosening his grip enough so Cato can retrieve his wallet one-handed. He tosses it on the desk and whimpers as Peeta twists the remaining secured arm further. Slowly, the woman resumes her seat. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even see her get up. Cato tells her which credit card to use and she runs the transaction. 

 

“I’m right-handed,” Cato complains when the clerk presents him with the receipt to sign.

 

“Now would be a great time to learn to sign your name lefty,” Peeta tells him. He keeps his hold on Cato until the payment is run all the way through. No taking it back.

 

It’s all over seconds later, with Cato beating a hasty retreat and throwing one last threat at Peeta, who simply smiles and shrugs. As soon as Cato is out of sight, Peeta apologizes to the clerk for the disturbance. Jo releases a loud puff of air as he leaves, favoring his left leg a little.

 

In a daze, I follow her as she waltzes up to the desk, plunks her purse down and fluffs her hair.

 

“Hi there, I need to make a payment on an account. My friend hasn't checked out yet but I'd like to at least get started, if you could tell me what the current balance is, that’d be great.”

 

“Yes ma'am. What's the patient’s name?” The woman is shaken but pushes onward, doggedly performing her job as Johanna inspects her nails, ever cool and nonchalant.

 

“Sarah Repasky,” Jo tells her.

 

“Who?” I ask at the same time the woman repeats what Jo just said.

 

“Sarah Repasky?” she squeaks.

 

“That's right,” Jo encourages and then whispers to me. “Glimmer’s real name.”

 

“I never would've guessed.”

 

“Yeah well, there's a lot you don't know about the girls, Kat. Because you never bothered to find out.” She turns back to the stunned clerk behind the desk. “Is there a problem?”

 

“No! I mean yes! I mean...her bill is already paid. To include two weeks worth of care in advance…those two...” she points helplessly towards the door.

 

“I thought so, thank you for your time.” Johanna drags me towards the exit and pauses near a large potted plant that partially obscures us from view. 

 

“I take it all back. Every last nasty thing I’ve said about you in the past few weeks. Even the ones you don’t know about because  _ damn  _ can you pick ‘em,” she whispers. We stare at one another and her lips curve up in a sly smile. “Sailor might need some consoling after that blow to his leg.”

 

Blood pounds in my ears as I realize what she’s suggesting I do. Jo rolls her eyes and releases me fully, crossing her arms over her chest.

 

“Oh come on. Don’t act all pure, like you haven’t already ridden his tugboat out to sea.” I sputter and flounder, unable to come up with a protest, even though it’s not true. She shrugs, pulls out her compact and applies another coat of lipstick. “If you don’t do it, Kat...I will. Because he deserves it for what he did tonight.”

 

Snapping the compact shut, she winks at me. That gets me moving.

 

************************

 

Clothes fly from my closet as I try to figure out what to wear. Something mildly seductive that doesn’t scream  _ whore _ . After twenty minutes of frantic searching, I settle on jeans and a loose satin top. I tear the first set of thigh high stockings I pull on and waste precious minutes donning the next with extra care. I mutter to myself all the way to Peeta’s new home, burrowing my face in my scarf and then fretting at the pink stain I’ve left on the fabric after I knock. I’ve destroyed my lipstick. Frantically, I dig out a tissue from my pocket and get rid of the rest.

 

“Hi,” he greets me cheerfully and opens the door. Crap. He’s already changed out of his uniform. Of course he has. I wasted so much time dressing up to seduce him.  _ Fuck _ , no, that’s not why I’m here. I’m settling a debt. Thanking him for what he did for Glimmer. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter what  _ he’s _ wearing.

 

“Come in. I was just starting dinner. You care to join me?” His smile is warm and inviting and impossible to resist.

 

“Yeah,” I say and he gently pries my coat from my shoulders to hang it up in the small coat closet in the entry way. I follow him into the kitchen, nervously tucking my hair back and surreptitiously trying to adjust my breasts so I look like I have more cleavage than I really do.

 

“So what do you think of what I’ve done with the place?” he asks, pulling me from my internal litany of how to seduce a guy. I let my lips curve slowly as I lean over the island, pushing my breasts together. I feel my top slipping off my shoulder slightly and I bite my lip briefly to complete the picture.

 

“Needs something on the walls,” I murmur. Peeta’s eyes go fuzzy for a second but then he turns to the stove and shakes a few seasonings into the pan. He shuffles the pan over the flames. Whatever he’s cooking sizzles and smells divine. His jerky movements make his ass look incredible, his jeans hugging the contours and framing the musculature. My abs contract in a spasm.

 

“Yeah, I haven’t had time to get to that yet,” he says. “I just got a couch yesterday.”

 

“Have you broken it in yet?” He freezes and his head tilts oddly for a second. Then he resumes his work cooking dinner, ignoring my blatant innuendo. Or maybe not understanding it. He is still a virgin after all.

 

“I read a book and fell asleep on it last night, if that’s what you mean,” he says. I glare at his back. He’s making this difficult. Alright, he wants me to work for it, I can do that too. I clear my throat and cease the flirty voice.

 

“So how’d your first day back go?” I ask.

 

“Not that exciting,” he tells me as he turns around, juggling the pan and two plates. “You wanna take these? I’d suggest eating in here, but I have no seats.”

 

“Couch?” I suggest, taking the plates and setting them apart on the island for him to divvy up the food. “Mmmmm, stir fry.”

 

His hand twitches but he finishes his task and then grabs two glasses.

 

“All I have right now is water,” he says sheepishly. “I hope that’s alright.”

 

“It’s fine.” I really wish he had something alcoholic right now. Maybe I’m not being obvious enough. But now that he’s told me his day was boring, I’m curious if he plans on taking credit for what he did. We settle on his couch with our dinner. I kick off my heels and tuck my feet up. “Tell me all about not that exciting.”

 

“You really wanna hear about my four week physical?”

 

“Your what?”

 

“Four week physical. When we get back from a cruise, they check us over before we step off the boat. Again a week later, and then three weeks after that, just to make sure.”

 

“What are they looking for?” I ask, low and sultry before I blow steam off the food piled on my fork. I moan around the bite as Peeta shifts on the couch. “Mmmmm, so good.”

 

“Uh, mainly they’re looking for infectious disease. But they do a mental evaluation as well.”

 

“What was the verdict?” I ask.

 

“Too much saltwater,” he says and I snort, then shake my head to refocus.

 

“I’m serious, Peeta. I don’t think I’d like it if you contracted an exotic disease.”

 

“The doctors say I’m not dying anytime soon, if that helps,” he says, keeping his eyes averted from mine. I’m tired of dancing around what I came here to talk about, though.

 

“Did you do anything else at the hospital? Visit Chaff?”

 

“Didn’t get the chance,” he says after he swallows his food. 

 

“Nothing else?” I prod.

 

“I think the doctors asked me fewer questions than this. Are you okay, Katniss? I know you’ve had a rough couple weeks, but is there something I did that bothered you?”

 

Enough. He has no intention of bringing it up so I guess I’ll have to do the dirty work. 

 

I set my plate on the floor and get up on all fours, crawling over him and plucking his empty plate from his grasp to set aside as well. I grip his ankle and run my hand up his leg, the one that Cato kicked, watching him through hooded eyes as he stares at my chest and then my mouth. He flinches when I hit the point of impact but doesn’t stop me as I move to straddle him. His head tilts back and his lips part on a sigh as I run my fingers through his hair. He must’ve gotten a haircut today. It’s short on the sides of his head again.

 

His eyelashes flutter as my hands trail down over his chest then lift his hooded sweatshirt just enough for me to get my fingers on his bare skin. It twitches beneath my touch and his hips lift off the couch into mine. I can see his pulse flutter beneath the skin of his throat. My own pulse thunders, a primal beat that travels down to between my legs and I gasp as I grind down on him. A burst of pleasure ignites in my core and I do it again. He’s almost fully hard and his hands grip my hips. I latch my mouth to his neck, kissing and nipping my way down into the crook where I suck on his skin until a tortured groan springs from his throat and his hands pull me so that I thrust over him harder.

 

“Wait, slow down, Katniss,” he begs breathlessly, moving one hand to cup my cheek and pull me up so that I’ll face him. I fight his touch and he doesn’t force me. Thread my fingers back through the longer hairs on his crown to keep myself anchored.

 

His request throws me off my game completely. I falter and my movements stutter. His thumb caresses my cheek. Tender. Loving. And shame encompasses everything else. I try to resume humping him. He murmurs my name in a soft plea, but he’s not as into it as I expect. It’s turning intimate rather than raw. I can’t handle intimate. Not again. 

 

New tactic, stroke his ego.

 

“What you did today was so brave,” I whisper and latch onto his earlobe, nibbling until he moans again.

 

“What are you talking about? It was just a check-up,” Peeta whispers, his fingers clenching my hips almost painfully.

 

“I’m talking about making Cato pay,” I tell him, deciding to just go for it. It worked when we were seventeen. I run my hands back down his torso and start unbuckling his belt.

 

“Wha-- No,” he says the last firmly, his hands lifting me off of him and setting me aside. I flop on the couch, a rag doll, confused and hurt by his rejection as he stands and tugs at his clothes, putting them back in order, shaking his head. When he turns to face me, the bulge in his jeans is unmistakable, but so is the anger in his eyes. 

 

“This has to stop, Katniss. Don’t do this.”

 

“Don’t do what?” I snap. 

 

“This,” he looks down and waves his hand over his crotch. His cock jumps and even two layers of clothing can’t conceal it. “Stop trying to turn us into a string of transactions.”

 

I gape at him as he curses and tugs ineptly on the hair he’s left longer on top of his head, a few errant curls passing as bangs. And then my own anger surges up. I somehow get myself on my knees on the couch and glare at him. What is with him and his superior attitude?

 

“I was good enough for you that night at the lake,” I snarl. “What’s wrong with me now? Too many men between my legs for you to overlook anymore?”

 

“That’s clearly got nothing to do with it,” he snaps back, pointing at his dick still straining to break free of his jeans and raising one eyebrow at me as if that explains everything. “I was seventeen, lonely, and the girl I’d had a crush on forever had her hands down my pants. I wasn’t exactly thinking about your motivations at the time. I just assumed you did it because you wanted me too, and found out later that I was wrong.”

 

“So?”

 

“So don’t I at least rate some honesty from you, Katniss? Do you really want me or is this just about Cato?”

 

“Why can’t you just be happy with a blow job like every other man on the planet?” I ask, exasperated with him beyond belief.

 

“I would be if it was for the right reasons and not to settle some kind of imagined debt.”

 

“It’s not imagined! Why else would you risk yourself and your career making Cato pay for what he did? It was either me or Jo coming here tonight, Peeta. Take your pick!”

 

“Neither!” he yells. I sit limply on the couch and fumble for a lock of my hair, twirling it around my finger and staring at him, trying to figure out the puzzle that is Peeta Mellark.

 

“Then why’d you do it?” I finally manage to croak.

 

“Because I was tired of it all. To the point that I couldn’t stand it anymore. Couldn’t stand to just sit and watch or I thought I might burst. I needed to  _ do _ something about it. Does that make any sense?”

 

It does. It makes perfect sense. If anyone was going to be able to make Cato face some kind of consequence, it’d be someone like Peeta. And how long have I wanted to do something and never did because I felt it was beyond my reach? Here Peeta is, finding a way. Making one where there isn’t a choice. Shame doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.

 

“He threatened you,” I whisper. “I heard him.”

 

“I can handle Cato,” Peeta assures me. “You don’t need to seduce me, thinking it’s some kind of last hurrah before he tries to carry out his threats. He cares too much about being an admiral to jeopardize his career that way.”

 

“And the bread?” I ask, my voice breaking. I grab my top and try to tug it back over my shoulder.

 

“The bread? What bread?” he asks, shaking his head. Then his eyes light with recognition. “You mean from when we were kids? Katniss, that was years ago. I think we can forget about it.”

 

“I can’t; you don’t understand. We hadn’t eaten decent food in days.” 

 

“And it didn’t make a bit of difference,” he says bitterly. “You were still on Cray’s doorstep less than a month later.”

 

“I -- it made a difference to me. I have to settle it. Or I’ll never stop owing you,” I whisper and then collapse in on myself. 

 

I can feel the frigid rain trickling down my spine and the pangs of hunger, then the infinite lightness of hope as his hands scoop me up, almost as warm as those loaves of bread that scorched my palms years ago. He cradles me and rocks as we sit on the couch, me curled into him on his lap, my nose nuzzled into the patch of his neck that always smells faintly of cinnamon. Maybe from his aftershave. He glides one hand over my hair, the other up and down my back. My fingers curl into the warm cotton of his sweat shirt.

 

“No, Katniss. Not like this. Not like this,” he murmurs softly. I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on breathing.

 

“This is all I have,” I tell him as the tears begin to fall. I’m just so tired of trying to keep my life in order.

 

“But it’s not. You really have no idea, do you? The effect that you have?”

 

Once more, his hand cups my cheek and gently tugs. I don’t fight this time and find myself staring into Peeta’s blue eyes. He’s so close, our noses almost brush and my hands grip his shirt tighter.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask petulantly.

 

“When we were seven, I think, you got in a fight with Bristel Matthews because she wouldn’t give up one of the swings for one of the kids in kindergarten to take a turn at recess. You didn’t call her names or hit her, you just informed her that she’d had precisely four minutes and twenty-two seconds of sitting on the swing doing nothing but gossiping and that was wasteful while others were waiting for a turn. She complained, but she gave up the swing. Then you gave the kid a push to get them started. Three weeks later, Bristel defended that same kid. They eventually became good friends.”

 

I scrounge my memory for the scene he’s describing. I vaguely recall it, and I know for a fact that Bristel and Leevy were inseparable after Leevy skipped first grade and joined us in second, all through high school. Peeta’s still talking, so I don’t have time to focus on the memories.

 

“On one of the coldest days of the year when we were twelve, your little sister’s friend had a bloody nose. Some jerk had pushed her around before school. You gave her your jacket because hers was ripped in the scuffle. Then you helped her to the school nurse and ended up late to class. A few days later, the jerk opened his locker and found nothing but packed snow and a note warning him to be nice or his lunch would be next.”

 

“We were kids,” I argue, thinking that everything changed the night my father and sister were killed. It doesn’t matter what I did when we were young. Something twisted me that night. Peeta smiles and keeps talking, though.

 

“There are a thousand and one stories like those. Even when we were older and your world had fallen apart, there were stories, although never much proof. A guy whose chair collapsed beneath him the day after he announced to the school that he dumped his girlfriend because she wouldn’t give him oral. But I remember the way you smiled when it happened.”

 

I gape at him, because I did pull the screws from Eric Jefferson’s chair and gleefully watched as his ass hit the floor.

 

“There was a day one autumn when I was working and you stopped at the grocery store, two doors down from the bakery, remember? And as you left, there was this girl. She couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, but you rifled through your bag and dropped a can of soup at her feet, even though we both know you couldn’t really afford to be nice. Then you just...kept walking. You were wearing a red plaid shirt with a black sweater over it. Your hair was in two braids instead of one that day.”

 

“How do you remember all these things?” I ask. 

 

“I remember everything about you, Katniss,” his thumb rubs over my check again as he pulls my forehead down to rest on his.

 

I do remember that last one vividly. It was shortly before we graduated. I can see the girl’s face. Her hollow cheeks and sorrowful eyes. The desperation in her gaze and the shame as she looked away from me rather than begging for food. The terror I felt that she might wind up like me one day. I don’t know what happened to her.

 

“But all those things,” I whisper, “they didn’t mean anything.”

 

“Yes they did. They mattered to those people.” He says. What he doesn’t say, though, resounds in my head.  _ Like the bread. _ “It’s like your visits to Glimmer. You don’t think you’re doing anything important, but I’ll bet that if you ask Glimmer about it, she’d say that it means the world to her. Someone who does things like that is hard to forget.”

 

He’s insane. I shake my head, denying what Peeta’s saying. He’s the one who was always helpful and likable. Not me. If I were kind like him, I’d have noticed by now, wouldn’t I? Besides, no one in Twelve seemed to notice me or what I was dealing with. The only person who helped me at all was Peeta.

 

“You should have,” I whisper.

 

“What? Forgotten you?” he asks and smiles oddly when I nod. “I couldn’t. Because you didn’t even keep the money. I found it in my pocket when I was halfway to the Academy and that changed everything I’d thought had happened that night. I almost turned back around to search for you.”

 

“Why didn’t you?” I ask, holding my breath as I wait for the answer, picturing Peeta staring at the hundred dollar bill in his fingers, rubbing the paper back and forth as a train carried him away from Twelve and towards the Academy. Alone.

 

“Because I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me. You made it clear that night at the lake and again when you walked away that you didn’t want me in your life. Instead, I went halfway across the world, trying to escape something else, and I thought it’d be the perfect way to forget you, too. The sound of your laugh or the feel of your hand on my shoulder while we danced. The flecks of gold buried in your eyes and the way your hair gleams in the sunshine. The sheer determination that gets you through every day, no matter what hell life throws at you or what missteps you make. How even though you were living a life of acting, underneath it all, I could always find the stubborn streak and the impulse to protect anyone weaker than you. I thought I could forget the whisper of the woods around Twelve. Or how gone I was the first time I heard you singing when we were five. 

 

“But every time I set foot in the trees, even in someplace a million miles from here, it’s like I could hear you breathing. Hear you singing with the birds. And I couldn’t forget you. Maybe I didn’t even want to. Because as long as I could remember the way I felt that night at the lake, I could remember how to survive it. How to take the worst blows and keep going or to take something awful and make it into something with promise instead.”

 

“That’s crazy,” I whisper and he laughs, soft and bright, his thumb still curving over my cheek, a conduit straight to my heart as it thumps wildly in my chest. Every time I walked away from him or pushed him back, it was with the confidence that he’d get over it and forget me, simply because he deserved better than anything I could ever give him. All he’s ever shown me is kindness and compassion. And I’ve only returned that with selfishness and hurt.

 

“Maybe, but it’s true,” he says. “So it was a real piece of luck that Marvel’s the one who organized that bachelor party. Otherwise, I might never have seen you again. And you don’t owe me a thing.”

 

“You sent me groceries,” I argue.

 

“I’m not keeping tally,” he says.

 

“You sent me groceries,” I repeat and he kisses my nose, just a feather light touch on the tip.

 

“I figure it all ends up equal in the end, okay? I only did that because it was the right thing to do after you fed me and housed me for close to a week.”

 

“How is that not a tally?”

 

He opens his mouth to protest but then his features twist in befuddlement. Now it’s my turn to laugh.

 

“Hold on just a second, I’m thinking,” he says. I flatten my palms on his cheeks and force him to look at me. “It doesn’t matter what I say, does it?”

 

“No it doesn’t,” I whisper. As I stare at him, I realize just how stupid I’ve been acting. Trying to turn him into anything that resembles a client so I could just brush him off or ignore the way he makes me feel. Existing in the belief that he’d prove me right one day and turn out to be just like every other person who paid for my body. I didn’t believe he’d actually care about me this much. How could he when I am soiled goods? But he keeps proving me wrong.

 

“Maybe we just, I don’t know…take care of each other when we need it? Without keeping track or expecting payment. Is that possible?”

 

“I think it is,” he murmurs. We sit there in peace, aligned in our motivations and thoughts for once. Guilt nags at me over all that I still haven’t told him, but something in what he said earlier still tugs at my mind, demanding attention.

 

“So, in all the time you were gone, you weren’t with anyone else?” Perhaps I teased him about the chastity belt, but I never really believed that he’d stayed completely away from all other women in five years.

 

“Not exactly. I dated several women, and I did explore physical relationships with a few of them, although I still haven’t--” His hand curls over my ear as he tucks back my hair. “In the end, none of them left an impression the way you did. And I didn’t want to take that last step with them.”

 

For some reason, this makes me giddy beyond reason. Not that he’s still a virgin, even if he’s made out with other girls and maybe even pushed to the edge of sex, what I care about is the other purity. That Peeta Mellark carried me across the seas in his heart the same way I carried him here in Panem.

 

“You must have been so disappointed in me that night. At the bachelor party.”

 

“Not in you,” he says earnestly. “I was disappointed that nothing had changed for you. You’ve made a living out of giving others what they want. Has anyone ever asked you want  _ you _ want?”

 

No. They haven’t. No one except Peeta.

 

“What do you want, Katniss? What do you need?”

 

His words aren’t even a whisper, they’re so quiet. I feel them on my lips more than hear them. What do I need? I could probably list five million things. A new job. A way out. A world that doesn’t require money to survive. A second chance. A third chance. A time machine. But as his lips part to speak again, I realize that in this moment, all I need is him.

 

We aren’t that far apart. All I’d have to do is lean in the smallest amount and kiss him. It’s not a tally. Not a debt. Just a want. A whisper of a hope. I don’t remember moving, but as our lips caress, we cling together, our ragged breaths dancing around the room. Then it’s not a whisper anymore but a shout that echoes through me. 

 

My hands, still bracketing his face, learn details I’d never thought would be important. The scrape of the short hairs just behind his ears on the pads of my fingers. The roll of his jaw beneath my palms. It’s a kiss that steals my senses and feeds each one of them back to me one morsel at a time. I’ve starved in the past. I’m familiar with the sensations. But I’ve never starved like this before.

 

He holds me to him, our hearts thumping on ribs and reverberated back to the start. The tang of the spices he used in the stir fry and the need to discover the next morsel. A soft moan when I make it to the underlying taste of him. Another when he’s the one who pulls away, although he doesn’t go far.

 

His hand massages the back of my head, sending pulses of delight over my scalp and down my spine until I’m completely relaxed in his arms.

 

“What was that for?” he whispers.

 

“For me,” I breathe out, astonishing us both. “Because I wanted to.”

 

“I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming,” he chants in between soft kisses he plants on my cheeks, and I laugh at him a little. But it reminds me that everything in my life is still so unsettled. Imperfect beyond measure. And Peeta deserves better than that. “Peeta, I...”

 

“Have to go?” he asks, his voice cracking oddly.

 

“No.” His body relaxes beneath me with the singular word and as he crushes me to him in an embrace, I realize just how badly I must’ve hurt him with every shove away. I swallow the fear in my throat.

 

“There’s just a few things I need to take care of before we do anything you might regret,” I say. I turn my head and rest it on his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of him wrapped around me.

 

“Okay,” he reassures me. “But I promise I’m not going to regret it.”

 

His acceptance is a drug, drawing me in to snuggle closer. His hand slowly strokes over my hair and I don’t want him to ever stop. I must fall asleep, though, because I wake to Peeta hefting me up in his arms. I moan in protest at the disturbance as he walks us into his bedroom. I try to lift my head to look at it, wondering how Peeta would decorate his sanctuary, but my neck can’t seem to support the weight and I collapse back against him.

 

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he tells me as he settles me on his bed. The sheets are cool and I burrow beneath them, shivering at the sudden absence of his body heat. Peeta digs through the duffle bag set against one wall as I register my low view must mean that he’s got a mattress and maybe the support box, but no bed frame. He returns to me with a long sleeve cotton shirt and a pair of socks. “Here. Something comfortable to sleep in.”

 

I accept the garments, reaching out and capturing his hand as he tries to retreat back to the living room.

 

“Peeta...stay with me?”

 

He stares at me in the darkness, but nods. Then he does leave, but the sounds of dishes in a sink alert me that he’s just cleaning up our dinner. He’ll be back. I use the chance to shimmy out of my clothes, tossing aside everything but my lacy black panties before wriggling into Peeta’s shirt and pulling on his socks, all while still under the covers. As he returns to the room, I duck below the covers to give him some privacy, even though it’s probably too dark for me to see. Once I’m certain he’s done changing into his own pajamas, I hold up the covers for him and he slides in next to me.

 

I chew on my lower lip and listen to him breathe, shiver every few seconds from the chill that’s taken residence in my limbs and won’t seem to go away. He sighs then.

 

“This is ridiculous. Come here,” he mutters, turning onto his side. I move without a word until my back is pressed against his chest and his arm is draped around me, the other one beneath my head. Warmth fills the spaces between the covers as we lay there, and I stop shivering. Through his window, I take in the clear night sky, speckled with stars, their light sharp and pure through the cold atmosphere. My eyes droop, and as Peeta whispers something to me, I slip into sleep.

 

**************************

 

There’s an annoying bird cawing at me, insisting that I wake up. I wrinkle my nose and groan. I must move, too, because the blanket keeping me warm starts to slip. With a whimper, I grasp for it and tug it tighter. The blanket laughs close to my ear but then secures himself more securely around my waist. I open one eye and find myself staring at a wall of chest in a gray t-shirt. From the lack of light, I can tell the sun is on the verge of rising. I groan again flip over to burrow my head into my pillow.

 

“You get up at ungodly hour,” I protest. Peeta laughs softly once more, his lips caressing the skin behind my ear and making me shiver. “And you need curtains.”

 

“I’ll get right on that, ma’am,” he teases and I flop onto my back to look up at him. Morning looks good on him. “Can I kiss you, first?”

 

I bite my lip and pretend to consider his request. “Shut that alarm off and then I’ll think about it.”

 

“I need my arm,” he says with a grin and I give an exaggerated sigh, lifting myself off his arm and relinquishing the one wrapped around my waist. 

 

“Fine,” I huff.

 

As soon as Peeta’s turned off his alarm clock, I grab hold of his arm and twist until I’m flush against his chest with him wrapped completely around me, a warm and forgiving refuge from the world. I feel his lips fluttering kisses on the crown of my head. I tilt my head back and his kisses travel over my closed eyelids, my cheeks, and eventually, to my lips. After a moment, he’s the one who sighs.

 

“Katniss, I need to get up,” he murmurs.

 

“Skip work. Stay in bed,” I suggest petulantly.

 

“As much as I would love that, I can’t.” I groan and burrow deeper into the cocoon we’ve made out of his bed. “Do you want to come run with me?”

 

“Not in a million years,” I tell him as he slowly extricates his arms from the tangle I’ve made of us and the sheets.

 

“Alright, I’ll turn the heater up a degree or two for you. I’ll even make breakfast when I get back,” he says.

 

“Mmmm, sounds like a great plan,” I says as he leaves the bed. I watch over the blankets as he searches his duffle bag for his running clothes, and despite my intentions to go back to sleep, I sit up once he’s in the bathroom, now able to satisfy my curiosity from last night.

 

There’s nothing to see. That’s not an exaggeration either. His walls are blank, and other than the mattress I’m sitting on, and his luggage neatly piled in the corner, there is nothing in his room. No clues to the person who lives here. Nothing that ties him to this place.

 

“How depressing,” I mutter and retreat back under the covers. I must be more tired than I thought because the next time I wake up, it’s to the merry sounds of pots clanking and something sizzling on the stovetop. Rushing into the bathroom, I deal with that first then glance in the mirror and nearly gag. I forgot to take my makeup off last night. A quick search of Peeta’s cabinets yields some soap and I scrub until every last bit of caked on mascara is washed down his sink. By then, my stomach is grumbling, so I grab the blanket off the bed and wrap myself up in its depths. Before I leave the room, I spot the pile of my discarded clothes, topped by a lacy black bra and thigh high stockings.

 

Out of habit, I search the pile and find my phone where I left it in the back pocket of my jeans. I have one message from Johanna.

 

_ How was the cruise? Rough seas or smooth sailing? _

 

I fire back an answer without even thinking about what I’m doing because I can hear the soft notes of music that Peeta must be listening to in the kitchen and the blankets wrapped around me still smell like him and even carry a little of our shared warmth in their folds.

 

_ No cruise. Riding out the storms in the docks until it’s safe to take the maiden voyage. _

 

I toss my phone back in the pile of clothes and walk out to the kitchen. The familiar sight of Peeta cooking in his running clothes makes me smile. He turns and returns the expression wordlessly, his hands busy with our meal. I hear my phone ringing in the bedroom and ignore it.

 

“Do you need to get that?”

 

“No,” I tell him and struggle for a second before Peeta lifts me and helps me sit on the island.

 

He’s focused on breakfast, though, and I smile when he pulls a bottle of my favorite syrup from the cabinets and sets it on the counter. He moves quickly, with assurance. I like watching him. At one point, he tears off a small piece of bacon and feeds it to me, asking if the seasoning is good. Once he’s got two plates loaded up, he returns and helps me down from the counter. We settle on the couch and eat in companionable silence. Once again, I think about all of the things I should tell him, but I can’t bring myself to ruin the peace.

 

“What do you have planned for the day?” he asks me and I shrug, mentally running through and coming up blank other than my usual visit to Glimmer. “I thought maybe we could meet up for lunch somewhere.”

 

Lunch. Shit.

 

“I...can’t…” I tell him reluctantly. Then I swallow my fears because he’s looking confused and maybe even a little hurt again, and I know now that this will never work if I’m not honest with him and hope he can understand. 

 

“I have to meet with my boss for lunch today. To explain to him why I haven’t been a model employee lately.”

 

“What are you going to tell him?”

 

“I don’t know yet,” I say and find myself once more in Peeta’s arms, the blankets from his bed tangled around us.

 

“Do you want me there with you?”

 

“No,” I whisper to his neck. “This is something I have to face alone.”

 

What I don’t tell Peeta is that I have no idea how extensive Plutarch’s network of friends and contacts is. What I do know is mildly terrifying. And I’m not the only one in danger anymore if he doesn’t like my answers. 

 

Peeta tries to argue with me, to beg, kiss, or trick me into telling him when and where I’m meeting with Plutarch, but I stand my ground. He can’t come to this. I can’t put him in any more danger than I already have. I want him as far from the world of Plutarch and purchased sex as possible.

 

Eventually, Peeta has to leave for work, although he does so reluctantly. The only reason he goes, I think, is because it’s illegal for him to miss a day without leave and it’s too late for him to request it except for an emergency. Although, I wouldn’t put it past him to lie and get the day off anyways.

 

We leave his place at the same time, him dressed smartly in his uniform and headed for the naval base. Me in yesterday’s thankfully failed temptress outfit and headed for uncertainty. In my own place, I shower and dress carefully, applying my makeup and perfume. A slinky blue dress that hugs my hips and dips low at the bodice. Stockings and heels.

 

Just in case, I ask Thom to let me out the back door into the alley way. He purses his lips at my apparel, but grants my request. I’ve dressed so differently most days during the past few weeks, that his surprise is understandable. It makes me nervous, though, that I won’t be able to resurrect Kat convincingly enough to pass Plutarch’s tests. 

 

Before I enter the Mockingbirds Cafe, I check my lipstick one more time and then school my features into an expression I hate. Sultry. Vacant in the eyes. But necessary.

 

Once I enter and give Plutarch’s name, I’m whisked to a table, my coat taken and hung on a rack nearby, next to Plutarch’s unmistakable plum pea coat with the beaver fur collar. He’s already there and examines me while the coat dance takes place, only acknowledging me once I move to take a seat.

 

“Kat, my dear girl. How are you?”

 

“Surviving,” I tell Plutarch with a sly smile. He returns it and chuckles. The sound is not merry.

 

“I hope you’re doing better than just surviving, Kat. Did you know that you pulled in almost as much as Johanna last quarter? The only girl who consistently earns more than you both is Cashmere. And yet, your numbers so far this quarter have been…”

 

The server interrupts to take our orders. I stick with water because I can tell I will need all of my faculties for this meeting. While the server jots down Plutarch’s extensive description of the scotch he wants before the meal, the wine during, and the coffee after, he also keeps sneaking peeks down the front of my dress. God, how did I do this for close to seven years? My skin crawls as he licks his lips and nods to indicate he’s getting Plutarch’s instructions, but just for a second, his eyes dart up to mine. And I smirk at him.

 

Coy with a dash of condescending. My trained response.

 

He swallows and pockets his notebook before assuring us that our drinks will be right out and disappearing into the kitchen.

 

“My numbers haven’t been ideal,” I provide before Plutarch can take the lead. He scratches absentmindedly at his mustache and nods.

 

“So you’ve noticed,” he says. “Now tell me how we can fix this. You’re one of the few girls I trust with larger accounts, my dear. I need you. The firm needs you. Especially after what happened to Glimmer and the unfortunate consequences.”

 

“What unfortunate consequences? What’s going to happen to Glimmer?” The questions fly from my mouth without my permission.

 

“That’s uncertain at the moment,” Plutarch says, spreading his hands and looking for all the world like a man worried about his employee. Anger swarms in pinpricks over my skin that Glimmer, that any of us, would be tossed aside so easily because of a few scars.

 

“Right. So you need us until we’re not useful to you anymore,” I say. I’m walking a dangerous line and I see the warning flash in his eyes.

 

“Glimmer will be taken care of, my dear. Trust in that.”

 

I blink and glance down at the table, uncertain what to say. Plutarch uses my silence and apparent contrition to change the subject back to me.

 

“Johanna tells me you’ve been having family troubles.”

 

“I have,” I respond automatically as my brain scrambles for a potential story she’d tell Plutarch.

 

“As much as I appreciate Johanna’s discretion, sometimes she keeps things about my girls that she should probably share. Tell me about these family problems. How can I help?”

 

The server saves me from having to answer immediately as he brings our drinks. I can feel his eyes on me again and Plutarch assess the young man carefully. I don’t like the speculative look in his cold, mud brown eyes.

 

“They were difficult, but getting better now.” I tell Plutarch after the server retreats, not wanting to get caught in some kind of twist of lies and land Johanna in trouble as well.

 

“Glad to hear it!” Plutarch booms. “So you’ll be back to regular work hours, yes?”

 

“Not likely,” I tell him, lowering my gaze and hoping it looks contrite. I need to be sincere now to sell it. “I’m afraid that I’ve lost Hurricane’s account.”

 

“You’ve what?” he asks, a thin thread of steel in the question setting my hair on end.

 

“His wife was catching on. For the sake of the firm and discretion, I had to end it with him.”

 

“That is a shame. A damn shame. Of course, if you’re right about his wife, you did the correct thing. We cannot afford trouble from jealous wives,” Plutarch sips his scotch, his brow furrowed in thought. I stomp down on my fury, but I’m starting to understand what Peeta meant about not being able to stand it anymore. Because of course the major concern is the loss of business and not the people who have been hurt as collateral. Madge, kind and brave and completely oblivious to how her life has been summarily destroyed. Her three innocent sons.

 

“You’ll find another regular, perhaps several this time, and this setback may only be temporary. They can’t resist you once they’ve gotten a taste! Take that young man for example,” he gestures behind me and I turn to find the server watching us. As soon as he notices me looking, he startles and busies himself with refilling glasses at another table. Plutarch’s voice drops to low and excited. A strategist plotting a kill. “He’s been salivating over you since you walked in. He wants you, Kat. He’s desperate for you.”

 

“He can’t afford me,” I throw a flirtatious glance back over my shoulder at Plutarch. But my stomach is in knots as Plutarch chuckles and takes another drink of his scotch. 

 

“Of course not, my dear. Can you blame me, though, for harboring concerns about your recent performance? You can’t sail by on your looks alone. That reels them in but it doesn’t keep them.” He smiles innocuously but I’m on the verge of leaping across the table and scratching his eyes out. Plutarch often speaks in nuance and riddles.  _ Harbor. Sail. _ Does he know about Peeta?

 

“What do you want, Plutarch?” I ask, my voice empty. Heart thudding so loud that I’m not sure how he doesn’t hear it. Peeta was right. Cato’s not the real threat. And it’s all my fault.

 

“Always so straightforward, my dear,” he says with a sickening smile. “Prove to me that you can still bring them in. I need to see it.”

 

“He’s working,” I protest and Plutarch gives me a sad smile, like he can read my thoughts and my excuses and knows how paltry they are. “And I’m in the middle of routine health care.”

 

It’s a lie. My cycle came and went right on schedule last week. If Plutarch takes the time to actually look at the calendar and can count to twenty-eight, he’ll figure out my ruse later. But I am desperate for anything right now.

 

“That doesn’t affect your mouth or hands,” Plutarch says. “Consider his bill paid. My treat. And I won’t even take my usual percentage. That will be  _ your _ treat for a job well done.”

 

I stand on shaking legs, because what choice do I have. He has tentacles in every level of government and every corner of town. He drinks scotch on Fridays with the Mayor of Four, plays golf with the Vice Mayor of Two and Tennis with the General of the Army. Lunches with the police commissioner and his wife. There were rumors that he had an affair with several high level legislators as well, although no names were ever given, and Jo told me she thought that was a cover of some sort. For what, she never said. The server may even be on his bankroll, paid to report back on my skills. Plutarch owns my apartment and my doctor and has access to my bank account and I can’t believe that I’ve been this stupid.

 

Last one, I promise myself as I let my hips sway and walk past the server at his station. He’s entering lunch orders but watches with rapt attention as I pass behind him. He barely flinches when I grab his ass.

 

“Know someplace quiet?” I ask. I’m only doing this to buy myself some more time with Plutarch. To figure out how to chop off the last remaining sticky fingers binding me to him. And because I don’t know if I’m reading too much into his words. He may have used them casually. Or they may have been a veiled threat. Either way, my choice has been made for me. And I hate that this is my life. That I dragged Peeta into it without wanting or meaning to. But I can’t let him hurt Peeta.

 

Last one. I repeat it over and over in my head, hoping it’ll stick at least once.

 

“Yeah,” the server breathes and leads me down a hallway to a dark corner behind the kitchens. He can’t be much older than nineteen. I won’t use my mouth on him. All I need is for him to look like he’s been completely fucked. So I order him to put his hands on the wall and stand behind him. Use my hands, mess up his hair, leave a streak of lipstick on the back of his collar. A zipper and a condom. He’s small and jerky in my hands, and since I can’t be too quick and I can’t take too long or Plutarch will claim that I’m losing my touch, I get him to the edge and let up. Twice more I edge him, and then I jerk him hard till he cums in the condom. 

 

Last one, I repeat the promise as I walk away without helping him pull himself back together, ignoring his request for my name. No more.

 

I duck into the ladies room, careful to meet Plutarch’s eyes for just a second before I disappear. I vomit and scrub my hands raw. Fix my makeup, and brush my teeth, grateful that I still carry a toothbrush and toothpaste in my purse. My phone chimes and I glare at it, disgusted with myself. Money in the bank.

 

When I return to the table, Plutarch is smiling happily. Our server stops by to take our food orders. I’m decidedly not hungry and order only a salad. Plutarch orders a massive steak. The entire time, the server’s gaze keeps darting to me. His hair is still sticking up in places and his rosy cheeks are the dead giveaway. They scream,  _ I just came hard _ . Good. That blush just saved my ass.

 

The server leaves to put in our order and Plutarch guffaws at the streak of purple on the kid’s otherwise pristine collar. For the rest of the meal, I barely hold it together. As Plutarch pays our bill, he snatches my hand and holds it to his lips for a second. I want to vomit again.

 

“A week, my dear, for your health. After that, I expect you ready to work. Understood?”

 

“Completely,” I manage to say with a smile and a bat of my lashes.

 

As soon as I am out of his presence, I break down and cry. I don’t care that I’m in the middle of the street. I race back to Peeta’s knowing that he won’t be there and not caring. I’ll wait on his damn doorstep but I can’t go back to my place with it’s plush curtains and perfumes and silks still hanging in the closet and Plutarch lurking in the shadows. Not yet.

 

I collapse against the door and let the tears flow. Muffled footsteps alert me to someone’s approach and still, I don’t move. I should go somewhere else, but I’m lost as to where. Maybe Cecilia will find room for me in the Home. She’s already bent the rules pretty far.

 

The solid surface behind me vanishes and I gasp as I fall backwards on top of a pair of feet. Hands grapple for me and haul me upright.

 

“Katniss! What happened?” Peeta asks. My legs quake and I start to fall. He goes with me and as I sit in his open doorway, he kneels in front of me, holds my face in his hands. Even through my tears I can see the concern in his eyes, hear the fury in his voice. “What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?”

 

I shake my head and he scoots backwards on the floor, pulling me onto his lap and letting the door swing closed, shutting out the rest of the world.

 

“I didn’t want to!” is all I manage to wail as he holds me. He doesn’t bother with nonsensical platitudes of comfort. They’re pointless at times like these.

 

Slowly, I calm down. I stare at the streaks of black mascara on his shirt and fight back guilt over the ruination of his uniform. Just one more thing I’ve destroyed. My father, my sister, my mother, myself, any chance I had at a good life or the love of this man. And still, he holds me. Waits for me.

 

When I’m finally able to lift my head to face him, he holds up a handkerchief and carefully dabs at my tears. His kindness only makes me cry harder. “I ruined your shirt!”

 

“To hell with my shirt,” he says softly. “Tell me what happened.”

 

“I didn’t want to do it, Peeta. I didn’t have a choice,” I sob.

 

“Do what, Katniss?”

 

I spill the story, from start to finish, leaving out my suspicions that Plutarch was threatening him. I can tell he’s holding onto anger and trying not to unleash it. I cling to his shirt and almost beg him not to leave me, but this is exactly why I never should’ve let him in my life in the first place. Because I was bound to keep hurting him and ruin it all eventually. When I’m done, I stare over his shoulder and spot his duffle bag on the couch, half packed and a few things neatly folded in piles next to it.

 

“Are you going somewhere?” I ask, panic rising up in my throat.

 

With a sigh, he leans back, putting space between us, and takes my hands in his. Thumbs rubbing over the backs as I wait for the blow.

 

“Katniss, I want to help you fix this.”

 

“But?” I ask, my voice quavering. He pulls out his phone and presses a few buttons. A man’s voice fills the empty space. A message from someone.

 

“Peeta, it’s your father.” I look up at him in confusion and he shakes his head so I keep listening. “Son, I know we don’t talk much anymore, but your mother’s sick. Doctors say she’s got maybe a few days left in her, if she’s lucky. Just thought you might want to know in case you could make it here for the end.”

 

“That’s it?” I ask him and he puts his phone away. “She had to be sick for awhile now if they know she’s about to die.”

 

“Three years,” Peeta says, and I can’t read his expression at all. It’s blank. As blank as his walls. “I called one of my brothers after I got the message. No one bothered to tell me because they didn’t want to  _ burden  _ me.”

 

“Oh, Peeta,” I say and drag him to me in a hug. We stay like that, both hurting and falling apart at the seams, struggling to keep it together.

 

“I was going back to Twelve, Katniss. I already have leave approved and a train ticket for tonight. I should go. She is my mother. If I don’t go, I’m no better than her. You have no idea how long or how hard I’ve tried to not be like her. I always wanted to be  _ me _ . And she’s… It’s just...I don’t want to leave you.”

 

“You’ll be back in a few days, right?” He nods, holding his eyes shut.

 

“If you need me to stay, I’ll stay,” he says, opening his eyes and looking deep into mine. As much as I wish he would, I know that he can’t. His mother, his past -- I can see in his eyes that he needs to face them. That’s the thing about this shitty life. You can only run for so long before you have to turn around and face the monsters chasing you.

 

“I’ll be okay,” I reassure him.

 

“What will you do next?” he asks. 

 

“I have a week to figure things out here. I’ll survive, Peeta,” I say softly, resting my hand on his cheek. He nods and leans into the touch, turns his head just enough to press a soft kiss to my palm. I can tell he doesn’t like my answer. But neither of us has much in the way of choices today.

 

************************

 

What will I do indeed. It is the question that plagues me as I brave my apartment and shower. With each drop of makeup and filth that washes down the drain, my resolve strengthens. I will find a way out. I will cut my ties to Plutarch and I will start over again. I will never look back, and I will never regret it.

 

To start, I’m going to make good use of my week off. I dress in jeans, a plain shirt, and a warm sweater, glad that in the past few weeks, I’ve started making the gradual transition from the wardrobe of a whore to that of a person I can stand to be. I’ll need layers to keep warm where I’m going. Then I dig out the suitcase Gale had delivered to my apartment for our trip to Seven. I’d probably be packing for that right now if I hadn’t met Madge, but instead I pack more of the same of what I’m wearing. Basic toiletries and cold weather gear. Unflattering and practical thermal underwear. The winters of Twelve are never kind.

 

I’ve exhausted every lead and followed each tip as far as I can go for now. I’m not doing much good here and more failed attempts will only make my desperation more tangible. I need a break. Time away. And more importantly, I can be there for Peeta.

 

And maybe there are some monsters of my own back in Twelve that need facing.

 

I call Jo and cut her off before she can rail at me for anything.

 

“I’m going to Twelve. I’ll be back in a few days. A week at the most. Tell Glimmer I’ll visit her as soon as I get back.”

 

“Good luck, Brainless,” is all she says. I don’t hang up just yet, though, because there’s one more thing I need to know.

 

“Does Plutarch know about my Sailor?”

 

“If he does, he didn’t hear it from me. And he won’t ever hear it from me.” Jo’s words only make me feel marginally better. They mean that there’s still a chance that Plutarch’s word choice was arbitrary, completely unrelated to Peeta. He could still be safe.

 

Once I’m packed, I march from my apartment, pausing at the desk only long enough to ask Thom to keep an eye on my place. He nods and holds the door for me. Snow flurries swirl around me as I wait for my cab. Again as I march inside the train station. I stop at the bank and take as much cash from my account as I dare, thinking that I can empty my bank account in small chunks. When I get back, I can try to find a bank that Plutarch doesn’t have spies in and open a new account just for me.

 

There’s only one train left today that reaches Twelve, so guessing which one Peeta will be on and purchasing a ticket for it is easy. I check my suitcase with the baggage handlers, and as I head towards the platform, I don’t know if Peeta will be happy or angry to see me. I pause on the platform to take out my phone, wiping the grime that’s collected off the screen and staring at the generic background picture. Then I turn the thing off and shove it deep into my purse. I won’t be needing it.

 

I board the economy car closest to the front of the train and walk down the aisle, searching for familiar blonde hair. I find him in the third car, staring out the window, his messenger bag stowed in the rack above him.

 

“Is this seat taken?” I ask, waving towards the empty one beside him. Peeta leaps to his feet.

 

“Katniss, what are you doing here?”

 

“I happen to have a week off of work, and a friend I want to help,” I say, gripping the strap of my purse and berating myself for packing a few books in it. The damn thing is heavy now, making my shoulder ache.

 

“What about finding a job and everything else?” The train jolts into motion and we both sway, catching our balance before we fall. I smile and shrug.

 

“Guess it’s too late for me to get off now.”

 

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says. I open my mouth to say I don’t even know what because this just hurts. But the pain vanishes in an instant as Peeta reaches out for me, shaking his head, tears forming on the lower rims of his eyes. He hauls me into an embrace, my purse falling off my arm into the empty seat. I wrap my arms around his neck and breathe him in as he caresses my braid and squeezes tight.

 

“But I’m so happy you did anyways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're still here? I am grateful you've stuck it out this far. And impressed. Please leave comments if you're angry, frustrated, happy, confused, hopeful, or generally just glad that I updated before a month had passed! I'm that last one, lol. Thanks everyone who's left comments on here; I am not used to this level of discourse on one of my fics, so it's been a learning experience. I want to hear your thoughts be they good, bad, or indifferent. Just give me a second to put on my body army before you start firing. ;-) 
> 
> The next two chapters (6&7) have been drafted and beta'd. Now they just need my edits/corrections and a few days of hand wringing (get your newspaper ready to whack me, PBJ), so the next two updates should be coming your way fairly quickly. Chapter 8 is basically drafted, and Chapter 9 (because I really do suck at estimating fic length) shouldn't be too much longer behind that.
> 
> Thank you as always to my personal Edna Mode, aka peetabreadgirl. Love you <3\. Seriously. You slog through a stupid number of words from me and keep from wailing on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

For the first leg of the trip, they keep the lights on in the train. We move through the city, staring at our own faces looking back at us through the windows. They serve a late dinner. Peeta and I talk very little until the dishes are cleared and the train begins to pick up speed as we head into the mountains.

 

The overhead lights flicker out and soft orange ones in the floor provide minimal illumination. Attendants walk the aisle, offering blankets. Peeta accepts two for us, draping one over our legs and the other around our torsos. He leans against the glass and I lean against him. With his arm holding me, I tuck my feet up on our bench and try to get comfortable. Neither of us can afford one of the luxury sleeping cars, so we make do.

 

As we sit there in the orange glow, we resume looking out the windows. A sea of blackness greets us until we crest a hill and all of Two leading down into Four is laid out before us, twinkling in the night. I am reminded of the night we spent above the world at the Panem Arms. How far we’ve come from that night. How much has changed. 

 

“Last time I made this trip, I was alone,” he says quietly. I slide my hand across his waist and adjust my shoulders so I can lay my head on his chest. My legs lay across his and his right hand caresses up and down my thigh. We can’t get much closer on this bench.

 

“When was that?” I ask, suppressing a yawn. The city lights disappear as we curve along the tracks, into the mountains that separate Two and Four from the other Districts. Somewhere up high in these mountains lays Twelve.

 

“Christmas, my first year at the Academy. I thought I was supposed to come home, so I did. It wasn’t very pleasant. After that, it was easy to find excuses not to come back, even over summer breaks. Basic training. A project I needed to finish up. Extra Training. Officer Leadership School. An internship on a destroyer. Preparing for and then being gone for a year and three months at sea.”

 

The silence continues for a moment. The moon breaks through the clouds, providing just enough illumination to turn the trees into a series of black stripes that we scream past. I’m so warm and happy and not caring about the mess I’ve left behind in Two that the words tumble from my mouth.

 

“I haven’t been back. At all.”

 

He nods slowly. “I figured as much. Were you in Two this whole time?”

 

“No,” I tell him and let my eyes slide shut. Our words are muted and spoken in a measured cadence with the swaying of the train. My limbs grow heavy and slumber calls to me. I yawn again and try to answer his question. “I went to Seven first. It wasn’t pleasant.”

 

Trees flash by in black stripes as snow swirls in random eddies in our path, glistening in the brightness of our lights. Soft music plays on the radio. There’s a steady hammering and then blinding white light. A shout. The world shudders and then spins out of control, shattering in twisted steel and crystalline fragments of glass scattered over red stained snow.

 

I gasp as hands hold me and a voice calls to me from the woods. I flail, struggling to get free of the restraints on me, but they only tighten. I have to get free or my Dad will die. I can’t let him die.

 

“Katniss. Katniss! It’s a dream, Katniss wake up,” Peeta calls for me.

 

I have to pry my eyes open and even then I’m not sure that I’m awake. Darkness surrounds me save for the faint orange glow of the train’s night illumination. Someone a row or two in front of us grumbles over the disturbance. I can barely make out Peeta’s features. I’m sweating and shaking and my knuckles ache. Glancing down, I see that I have a death grip on his shirt. I force myself to loosen my grip and look back up at him.

 

“I wasn’t...screaming, was I?” I whisper.

 

“No, just sort of whimpering and thrashing a little. Do you want to talk about it?”

 

I shake my head and hide my face in his shirt, resettling myself in his embrace and hoping he’ll let it go in a way I never can. It’s been awhile since I’ve had this dream. He runs his hand soothingly up and down my arm, his chin resting on top of my head. I don’t want to go back to sleep, terrified that the nightmare will return. The closer we get to Twelve, the more likely it is the images will haunt me. But I can’t fight the pull of the warmth of Peeta beside me coupled with the rocking of the train and the comfort of his touch. Eventually, I succumb.

 

************************

 

In the hazy hours of mid-morning, Peeta and I wait at the door to the train as it slows. He repeatedly adjusts the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. Other than that, he gives me no clues to what he’s thinking or feeling.

 

As we enter the station, for a second, everything outside is dark and our faces become clear in the glass. Impassive and bored save for the dark circles under our eyes that belie a night of poor sleep. My neck aches. And inside, I am screaming.

 

When the train finally halts, I reach out and brush my fingers across the back of Peeta’s hand. He grasps my hand in his and gives me a reassuring squeeze. Then as the doors open, we step from the train as one.

 

Immediately, the cold air bites my lungs and I suppress a gasp of shock. I’d almost forgotten how cold it was here. They never bother to heat the interior of the train station. The soaring ceilings make it impossible. We silently wait as they unload the baggage and collect ours before we head outside the station. It’s overcast and the town is covered in a thin layer of snow. Patches of it are filthy, intermingled with coal dust and dirt. It looks exactly the same as when I left.

 

Peeta leads us towards the handful of cars for hire and rents one for us, giving the driver the address to his parents’ house before loading our bags in the trunk. We’re silent during the ride, each staring out the window, lost in our thoughts and unpleasant memories. I grip my own hands and nearly squeeze the life out of them as we pass familiar alley way openings and the dilapidated neighborhood where Cray lives.

 

Maybe Peeta was right and I shouldn’t have come.

 

As we near his childhood home, he rests his hand gently on top of mine. I separate my own and hold onto his, two handed. Probably cutting off the circulation to his fingers, but I’m barely holding on to my wits as the memories hang thick in the air, threatening to suffocate me.

 

The driver offers to help with our bags once we reach our destination, but Peeta pays him extra to wait for us.

 

“We’re not staying here,” Peeta explains to the driver.

 

“Suit yourself,” he says, and pockets the money. He leans against the car and lights a cigarette while Peeta once more grips my hand and we walk towards the front door. It opens before we get there and one of his brothers emerges, bracing his hands on his hips as he watches us approach.

 

“If it isn’t the prodigal son, come to grace us with his presence,” the brother says. I’m not sure which one it is. I could never keep track of all five of them or even their names. The only Mellark brother I ever knew for certain was Peeta. This one bears a stunning resemblance to Peeta except for the slight upturn of his nose, the longish hair -- more like how Peeta wore it when we were young -- and the arrogant smirk. I think I remember this one as being known to circulate girlfriends faster than he changed his socks.

 

“So why aren’t you bowing?” Peeta asks. 

 

His brother narrows his eyes at Peeta and I’m wondering if I’m about to witness a fight when the man throws his head back and laughs. Then he reaches out and pulls Peeta into a rough hug, yanking Peeta’s hand from mine in the process. A scuffle and a few twists and suddenly, Peeta’s bent over in some kind of headlock and his brother rubs his fisted knuckles over Peeta’s hair in a rapid motion.

 

“Welcome home, little bro,” he says before releasing Peeta with a flourish.

 

“You wanna move this touching reunion inside before Ma senses the waste of heat?” Another brother appears to grab the first by the collar and drag him inside. He moves to do the same to Peeta but then spots me and blinks in confusion. I’m taking notes on physical differences. This brother’s nose is bulged in one spot, possibly broken in a fight. There was one brother who was constantly in Principal Abernathy’s office. “You didn’t say you were bringing company, Peeta.”

 

“We’re not staying here,” Peeta repeats as he runs a hand over his hair, trying to repair the damage his brother did.

 

“Hey! It’s the runt!” A third one joins us in the foyer of the house. I don’t recall seeing much of this one at school, but I could be wrong. His face is smattered with light brown freckles. “Glad you could join us.”

 

“Keep it down. Ma’s trying to sleep,” another one admonishes as he stomps loudly down the stairs. His blonde hair is kept in a ponytail at the nape of his neck and hangs halfway down his back. Stubble roughens his jawline and neck.

 

“Then maybe you should send the elephants out back,” the brother who messed up Peeta’s hair says. The one who hushed them flips a middle finger, waving it to emphasize his disgust before he vanishes into the back portion of the house.

 

“So are you gonna introduce us or do I just start flirting?” The freckled third brother asks.

 

“How’s Marie?” Peeta asks instead and his brother’s cheeks redden while the other two muffle their laughter. I’m guessing this is some inside joke, but Peeta puts a hand on the small of my back and motions further in the house. “Let’s at least do this in the kitchen.”

 

The others follow us, and I try not to stare. The house is clean. Spotless, actually, but as I look around, I have to reevaluate what I thought I knew about Peeta’s childhood. Worn rugs are scattered on the polished wood floor, but on close inspection, I spot several patch jobs and a few holes. The rest of the house is the same story. Neat and tidy, pleasant at first glance but threadbare on closer look. Scratches on the furniture. The fire poker is taped together and I wonder what happened to break it. The wood of the mantle is cracked, as is the tile floor in the kitchen, although someone tried to fill the cracks with grout. Six school portraits in plain wood frames line the hallway. I find Peeta’s at the end. He’s barely smiling, his cheeks still rounded in youth. I’d guess this one is from when we were thirteen, maybe. The fashion in the other five portraits suggests none of them have been updated in over a decade. 

 

In the middle of the kitchen, Peeta’s father stands behind a massive island. He smiles slightly, without showing teeth, and waits for Peeta to approach before opening his arms. I feel like I’m intruding on something, but his brothers continue to joke around. All five of them are here and it’s more than a little overwhelming.

 

“We apologize for our brother’s lack of manners,” one of them says as Peeta’s dad releases him, snaring my attention.

 

“Sorry. Shall I introduce you in age order or biggest jerk to least?” Peeta asks.

 

“Where do I fall in the jerk order?” one of them asks and my head is spinning trying to discern the differences. It’s not so easy with them all congregated and constantly talking like this.

 

“I’m not sure it matters,” I chime in, sliding my hand in Peeta’s and squeezing. “Did your parents walk into the baby factory, point to one model and say, ‘We’ll take five of those?’ I might need nametags to tell you apart.”

 

They all fall silent and then one of them starts laughing. The rest join in as Peeta’s dad tries to quiet them. I’m sure I’ve offended him, but his eyes are creased and his lips spasming like he’s trying so hard not to laugh at his own children.

 

“Left to right then,” Peeta says when he gets his own laughter under control and points to the brother on our far left. “Leavi, Graham, Wheaton, Ryen, and Bannock...this is Katniss.”

 

I narrow my eyes and look at them, slowly shaking my head, as though rejecting their names. I insert my own, repeating Peeta’s pointing motions. “Curly, Ponytail, Freckles, Jerk-face, and Broke-nose.”

 

“Hey!” Jerk-Face protests, but Peeta wrestles him into a headlock and returns the hair-messing maneuver he did to Peeta in the doorway.

 

“I think she’s got you figured out already, Ryen,” Peeta says, releasing his brother.

 

“So what’s Peeta’s nickname?” Curly -- er, Leavi -- asks.

 

“Love muffin?” Broke-nose/Bannock suggests with a teasing grin, and I can’t help the blush that springs to my cheeks.

 

Before anyone can suggest another outrageous nickname for Peeta, though, a shout travels down the stairs, followed by the incessant ringing of a bell. Five brothers sigh and two of them face off, fists in palms as they conduct a quick round of Rock-Paper-Scissors.

 

“Damn it,” Bannock mutters when Ryen’s scissors slice through his paper. “Your turn is next, Jerk-Face so wipe that smug grin off your face.”

 

Bannock heads up stairs, ignoring Ryen’s muttered protests that Peeta should have the next turn since they’ve been doing this for a few days already.

 

“Peeta’s not been home in years and you’re gonna punish him as soon as he gets here?” Graham says.

 

“Hell yeah! He’s had a four year sabbatical from her shit,” Ryen mutters.

 

“It’s fine,” Peeta waves away his brother’s concerns. “Put me in the rotation.”

 

“Boys,” Mr. Mellark finally speaks, his tone stern though quiet. “Your mother is in a lot of pain. We need to be understanding right now.”

 

Beside me, Peeta’s entire frame goes rigid. I slide both arms around his middle and move as close to him as I can get. Freckles turns his back on his father, but I still catch his dramatic rolling eyes. Mrs. Mellark’s interruption has put a damper on what felt like an otherwise happy family reunion as the remaining brothers disperse. Graham claims that he’s going home to help his wife start dinner. Leavi ruffles his already messy curls and mentions firewood that he was chopping before Peeta arrived. Ryen flops on the couch and turns on the television, although the volume is so low, I wonder how he can hear anything. Freckles/Wheaton steps into what I assume is a formal dining room and appears to be making a phone call.  Mr. Mellark continues his slow, methodical work in the kitchen, kneading some kind of dough. All levity dies and the quiet that settles over the house is unnerving.

 

“If you two don't mind sleeping on fold out cots in your mother’s sewing room, why don't you go settle in and freshen up. I'm sure it's been a long night on the train,” Peeta's dad says quietly.

 

“Dad, Katniss and I aren’t staying here,” Peeta says softly. Mr. Mellark stops what he’s doing and looks up at his son. His eyes drop briefly to my arms still around Peeta’s waist before he responds.

 

“I know there might not be much privacy with Wheaton, Leavi’s whole family, Bannock and his wife, plus Graham and his new girl staying here--”

 

“It’s not that. I don’t want to impose on you and Mom right now.”

 

“You’re family, Peeta,” his father protests.

 

“Dad. Please. I haven’t been back in four years.”

 

“All the more reason for you to stay here and be close to family. Your mother needs you right now,” Mr. Mellark pushes. Peeta’s fingers dig into my coat and my eyes dart between them.

 

“Mr. Mellark, we appreciate your hospitality. Truly. It’s just that spending months on a ship away from family and friends can be rough. May feel isolating, even, and staying somewhere else while we’re here may make the transition a little easier. You have a large family. It’s a lot to take in,” I toss it out there, hoping I’m making any kind of sense at all. Peeta’s father stares silently at me for what feels like ages. 

 

“I see. Well, I’m glad he has you to help with the transitions,” Mr. Mellark says. Then he turns to the counter and continues to knead his dough. “I’ll be serving dinner at six. At least come by for that, son?”

 

“Of course. We’ll be back soon. Just need time to check into a hotel,” Peeta says. As we leave the house, he sighs heavily and then stops on the front steps to pull me back into a tight embrace. The cold wind nips at our exposed cheeks and ears. All I can do is hold him while he regroups. When his lips brush over my cheek, we step apart. Peeta takes my hand and gifts me with a soft smile. Then we climb back into the still waiting car.

 

“Where to now?” the driver asks. I mentally run through a list of every motel and hotel in Twelve and come to the realization that I’ve spent an hour in almost all of them. I’m not sure staying somewhere I once took a customer is such a great idea. I speak up before Peeta can name one of them.

 

“Are there any newer places to stay in Twelve?” I ask.

 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” the driver says with a smile. “My cousin, just opened up a bed and breakfast out on the south shore of the lake six months ago. Real nice place but we don’t get many visitors in winter. She’s probably got a room for ya.”

 

“That sounds lovely,” I crane my neck to check the name on his ID taped to the dashboard, “Amir. Thank you.”

 

“This your first time in Twelve?” he asks, suddenly talkative now that we’re giving his relative business.

 

“No, we’re actually from here,” I tell him, hoping that will prevent us from getting the grand tour. Slipping my hand back into Peeta’s, I settle into my seat as Amir pulls away from the curb. 

 

“Oh,” he glances at us in the rearview mirror and nods. “Okay, yeah, I see it now. You’re a Mellark, right? Never could keep any of you straight what with eight boys in your Dad’s generation, all with at least four kids each. Whew. And now your generation’s popping out even more mini Mellarks. If the world ever needs repopulating, your family might do the job on it’s own.”

 

Peeta manages a smile and half a laugh at Amir’s analysis of his family tree.

 

“And I’d bet you’ve got some Seam blood in ya,” Amir’s head cants towards me.

 

I nod and give him a strained smile, glad that he didn’t ask for my last name. He spends the drive catching us up on local gossip. Some of it still makes no sense to me, but I guess that’s because Amir only shares recent news. He has no idea that neither of us have been home in years. Peeta manages to politely carry the conversation, though. 

 

By the time Amir pulls up in front of a freshly painted two story with a sign out front advertising vacancies, my head is spinning from all the information that flew about in the car. Amir and Peeta unload our bags while I take in the surroundings.

 

It’s so quiet here. We’re actually not that far from the spot where Peeta and I met up at the lake so many years ago. I take a few steps along the snow laden road and peer around the side of the house towards the lake. The frozen expanse glimmers in the sunshine and beyond, the trees sway in the breeze, puffs of snow crash to the ground from their branches. In the distance, the peaks of the mountains form jagged teeth scraping the sky. 

 

“Just tell Lila that Amir brought ya and she’ll fix you right up. Good day, Mr. Mellark,” Amir says happily. I look back over as he climbs into the car and chastise myself for letting Peeta pay for our entire fare. But then I shake myself. I can pay for lunch. 

 

“Ready?” Peeta asks, holding the extended handle of my suitcase out for me to grasp. I take it and he rolls his shoulder to adjust his duffle bag. We walk side by side up the brick path, past the cheery sign that reads  _ Silver Lake B&B: Kalila Gardner Proprietor _ .

 

As we enter, a bell rings and a voice calls out to us from a back room somewhere, “Be right with you!”

 

I finger a brochure laid out on the desk, glancing over the prices and trying not to faint. They’re not  _ bad _ but given my uncertain future, I’m not sure this is our best option. Peeta peers over my shoulder at the prices as well and hums. I’m wondering if he’s thinking the same thing. He points to the room labeled  _ Alabaster Suite: One queen size bed and fold out couch in adjoining living area. Lakeside view. Breakfast included. $140 per night. _

 

“I’ll take the couch,” he offers. I don’t have time to protest or remind him that we shared his bed before we left the city because a willowy woman in a floor length, saffron dress and an ochre headscarf sweeps out and smiles at us.

 

“I apologize for the wait. Welcome to Silver Lake Bed and Breakfast. How can I help you?”

 

“Good morning. Your cousin Amir just dropped us off here. We’re looking for a room,” Peeta tells her.

 

“Well, I have several options available,” she tells us.

 

“The Alabaster Suite?” Peeta asks hopefully.

 

“All yours,” she offers, turning a guest book on the desk and sliding it towards us. “Please just fill this out for our registry. How many nights will you be staying with us?”

 

“Probably three,” Peeta tells her. I don’t argue. We’re here for him, and given how subdued we’ve both been since we got off the train, the less time we spend in Twelve, the better.

 

“Just let me know if you intend to stay longer,” she says. As Peeta finishes registering us, she grabs a key from a hook on the wall and steps around the desk. “I’ll show you to your room. Breakfast is served between 7 and 10 in the dining room, just there.”

 

We both glance towards the open area to our right that she waves towards. The room is quaint, with a handful of tables adorned with vases of flowers and lace tablecloths. But the true stunner is the wall of windows overlooking the lake, a snowy vista, untouched by the coal dust that mars the white of the snow in town.

 

“We’re supposed to be getting another two feet of snow tomorrow night. I hope you both packed your snow boots!” Kalila leads us up a narrow staircase to the second floor and down the hallway. It’s painted a dove gray and marked with simple paintings, mostly still lifes, and each door is painted a vibrant color to match the suite name. Kalila stops in front of pristine white door and inserts the key. “Enjoy your stay and let me know if you need anything.”

 

Peeta thanks her and accepts the key before holding the door open for me. Like the dining room downstairs, the room is cozy. Despite it’s colorless name, it’s filled with warm hues. A brown sofa draped with thick, wine red blankets. Forest green rugs swirled with cream fleur de lis and scroll work. The walls painted in cream. 

 

Peeta sets his duffle next to the couch while I wander into the bedroom. An inviting nutmeg hued quilt, sumptuous cream pillows and more of the wine red blankets beckon for occupants to curl up in the cozy bed and nap. Windows span the entire northern wall, the plum curtains tied back to frame the view of the lake.

 

I set my suitcase next to the bed and stand before the windows. The cold seeps through them, and I let my hand hover over the chill. Heat radiates up through my feet, though, and I wonder if the inn manages to maintain a decent temperature in spite of the many windows by running the heating through the floorboards.

 

“Nice view,” Peeta says behind me, and I turn to face him.

 

“Peeta, there’s no reason for you to sleep on the couch,” I say, waving towards the bed.

 

“I didn’t want to assume,” he says.

 

“Now you don’t have to.”

 

“Okay,” he says uncertainly. “I’ll just....move my bag in here.”

 

We take turns in the shower; Peeta insists that I go first. As I sit on the bed, combing through my wet hair and gazing out the window, I can’t help but let my mind wander back over the morning’s events. Through memories both foul and pleasant. And inexplicably, to Peeta Mellark naked and soapy in a shower, less than fifteen yards away from me.

 

That last one stuns me a little. I am by no means inexperienced, but nudity was always just a forgone conclusion tied to my profession. Something I had to get used to. For once, though, I am curious. Thirsting for tiny details I don’t know yet. And I have no business being curious about whether or not he has freckles on his shoulders or what shade of hair hides beneath his clothes. Not with my life hanging in limbo and our reasons for being in Twelve. I stomp my curiosity down and focus on drying my hair with the towel so I can braid it and not freeze.

 

************************

 

We take another car back into town and after lunch, I can tell Peeta’s stalling when he suggests taking a walk before we head back to his parents’ house. Since I can’t blame him, I take his outstretched hand and agree. In so many ways, I feel as though nothing has changed. The storefronts look the same. The gutters still run with tainted snow, melted by repeated traffic and the intensity of the sun as it beats down on us through the frigid atmosphere. 

 

He stops in front of the bakery and gazes through the window. The place is closed and dark. A sign hangs inside the window reading,  _ Temporarily Closed Due to Illness In the Family. _ The usual displays of elaborately decorated cakes are missing. The place looks forlorn and lost. 

 

“I used to decorate the cakes,” he says, running a finger over the scripted  _ M  _ painted in gold lettering on the window. I open my mouth to say something when a voice cuts me off.

 

“Peeta?” A woman behind us says in surprise. It was bound to happen eventually. Someone here was bound to recognize one of us sooner or later. I’m just glad it’s him and not me. People here will have better memories of Peeta. 

 

We turn and face the voice, a plump woman bundled up against the cold, her cheeks rosy. “Oh my gosh, I thought it was you!”

 

“Delly,” Peeta says in the second before she throws her arms around him. He staggers back, releasing my hand to return the embrace.

 

“It’s been years! Oh but my manners! Won’t you come in for a few minutes?” She finally steps back and gives Peeta room to breathe before gesturing to the store next to the bakery.

 

“Is this your place now?” he asks, eyes roving over the quaint brick facade. The colors on the sign complement those of the bakery and the words advertise a cozy tea parlor.

 

“We’re neighbors!” Delly says excitedly. “Well, I’m shop neighbors with your parents. Come in, it’s freezing.”

 

Since it’d be rude to refuse, we follow Delly inside. She greets the woman working behind the counter and urges us to remove our coats. Peeta’s sliding mine from my shoulders when she finally notices me. 

 

“You look so familiar, but then my mother says I’ve never known a stranger. I’m Delly Cartwright. Peeta and I used to be good friends before he went away and got too handsome for the rest of us.” She elbows Peeta and he smiles, but there’s an odd look that passes between them.

 

“Uh, Dells, I don’t know if you’ll remember, but this is Katniss.”

 

“Katniss?” Delly squeaks. “Everdeen? What an amazing surprise! Both of you home? Oh my goodness, we haven’t seen either one of you around here in ages. Petunia! Can you get us a trio of Earl Greys, milk no sugar. Unless you’ve changed your tastes, Peeta?”

 

I scowl and slip my fingers back through Peeta’s. Guess it’s common knowledge how Peeta Mellark takes his tea.

 

“No, but can we get a peppermint for Katniss?”

 

“Sure thing!” the girl Delly called Petunia says and hums while she prepares the tea and Delly leads us to an empty table. I note that most of the tables are empty. Once we’re settled, Delly smiles at Peeta and rests her hand on top of his forearm.

 

“It really has been too long, Peeta. You’ve got to catch me up on everything that’s happened to you!” For a second, I swear that her eyes dart to me.

 

Peeta and Delly catch up, their easy conversation like spikes down my spine. Petunia brings the tea, and I am grateful for something to do with my hands. It wouldn’t be so bad if Delly were malicious, but I don’t think there’s a mean bone in her body. She finally gets to the tricky questions when all of us are nearly done with our tea.

 

“So what brings you home?” she asks brightly and sips on her drink.

 

“Ma’s not doing so well, and…”

 

“Oh you poor dear,” Delly says and her hand is back on his arm. Maybe she does have a malicious bone in her body. He can’t finish his tea if she keeps groping him. “I had heard something, but I didn’t know it was that bad. It’s so good that the navy gave you time off though. How long will you be staying in town?”

 

“Just a few days,” Peeta says. “I have to get back to Two for a navy function.”

 

I blink and try to act like I already knew this, taking a sip of my tea to cover my shock. I wonder if he’s lying to her, though. He’s a pretty good liar. I’ve seen him brush off bruises and pain and turn them into a joke many a times. Delly must know this too; they were in the same circle of friends at school. But she nods sagely and doesn’t seem to suspect a thing.

 

“Well I’m so glad I ran into you then. I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your valuable time visiting your family. They miss you so much, too.”

 

Nice must be a cover for willful ignorance in her case.

 

“Thanks Dells. It was nice to catch up,” he says, placing his empty cup back in his saucer. I throw back the rest of mine. As we stand to leave, Delly hugs him again, this time kissing his cheek, too.

 

“Don’t be a stranger!” she tells him.

 

Once we’re back on the street, I stuff my hands in my pockets. Peeta walks silently beside me. The cold air crackles around us and I can’t keep it in.

 

“So. Delly,” I say.

 

“Yep,” he answers, and his short reply sparks something inside me. I halt on the sidewalk.

 

“Did you and her...you know?”

 

“Did we what, Katniss?” he asks, turning to face me and ignoring the handful of pedestrians that glance at us as they walk by.

 

“Did you date her?” I whisper, shoving down the warning bells in my head that remind me that this is a very unfair question. It’s different, though. Every person I was with was never a real option. There was no love, no trust, not even any desire. But given the chance, Peeta could’ve fallen in love with and married Delly.

 

“Not technically,” he says.

 

“That’s not an answer,” I say, picturing him and Delly smiling and laughing with a pack full of blonde haired, blue eyed, adorable children. The next generation of Mellarks running wild through the streets of Twelve. Except they wouldn’t be. They’d probably be the sweetest, most generous kids in town and the whole world would fawn over them.

 

“There’s not much to tell,” Peeta says with a shrug. “We tried. It didn’t work. I left. And that was the end of it.”

 

Everything in me burns as I try to put memories and faces and names back together. Is he telling me that he was with Delly the day of  _ my  _ mother’s funeral? I would’ve notice that, wouldn’t I? It’s driving me mad, yet another reminder of how Peeta should be with anyone but me.

 

“Katniss,” he says softly, reaching out for my hand. I let him take it. I want him to take it. But I’m also learning how to be a decent friend. I was never any good at it to begin with and it’s not like I’ve had a lot of practice. So I take a deep breath and slowly let it go.

 

“Why didn’t it work?” I ask. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m just curious.”

 

“When I came back for Christmas that first year, she kept dropping hints that she was interested. So a few nights before I was supposed to go back to the Academy, we snuck into her house and made out a bit, but we were interrupted. I went home, and the next day, we couldn’t even look at each other. The rest of the week was just plain awkward. So I got on the train the train when my break was over and went back to the Academy. The next letter she sent me was like every one she’d sent before that. Then they got fewer and far between until they just stopped. So overall, a very exciting and passionate courtship.”

 

I can’t help the snigger that leaves my throat. I stifle it and shake my head at him.

 

“Be reasonable, Peeta. Clearly, it’s meant to be.”

 

“Yes, brothers with the flu are a great stimulus to any romance,” he says.

 

“Is that what happened?”

 

“Yeah,” he says. “Kind of difficult to maintain the mood when her little brother is blowing chunks in the bathroom next door.”

 

“Oh my god,” I say and cover my face with my hand. Being a prostitute, I have all sorts of awful stories about awkward sex, bad sex, and weird clients, but I think Peeta’s may take the cake. 

 

“Any chance you’d want to try again? She seemed awful flirty in there,” I say as we resume walking.

 

“Not anytime soon,” he says, gazing at me with an intensity that nearly steals my breath away.

 

Eventually, we end up in the park, and Peeta pauses in front of the brightly colored mural painted on the wall of the town hall, overlooking the snow covered fields of the park. Footprints trail through the snow and here and there, I spot patches of yellow where someone’s dog must have relieved themselves.

 

But Peeta’s eyes are fixated on the mural. He painted it as part of a community service project when we were sixteen. Artists turned in ideas to Principal Abernathy and the Mayor selected one to paint the wall with something to represent District Twelve. Part of the Mayor’s many attempts to bring some life back into our struggling District. I haven’t thought about this painting in ages.

 

“I wasn’t going to submit my idea for this,” Peeta tells me, drawing my attention back to him.

 

“No?” I ask, trying to sound innocent.

 

“Someone else turned it in to Principal Abernathy,” he explains.

 

I already know that. In the days after Peeta gave me the bread, I tried to come up with a way to thank him. But my shame over my mother’s deteriorating condition, the accident, and a hundred other things kept me from approaching him. I was still trying to figure out why someone who’d never spoken a word to me would help me when no one else would. He had to want something in return, right? But every time our eyes met across the classroom, his would skip away too fast for me to determine his motives.

 

Then things got worse and I went to Cray. 

 

Nothing changed in regards to Peeta and I after I went to Cray, although then I started to look for pity or lust in his blue eyes, expecting Peeta to either think the worst of me or want the worst of me. But he never even tried to talk to me. 

 

Then one day, as I left Mr. Lemming’s classroom, trying to brush off his insinuations that he’d be willing to use my services, I spotted Peeta down the busy hall. He didn’t see me. Instead, he stared at whatever was contained in the plain black folder he held in his hands. He shook his head, tossed the folder in the trash can, and walked away. As he passed by me, I watched him rub the heel of his palm over a fresh bruise on the side of his neck. Our eyes met for just a second and then I looked away, certain that he could sense how close I was to caving and taking on teachers as clients. But once Peeta was gone, I retrieved the folder from the trash.

 

All through my next class, I stared and stared at the life on the page inside the folder instead of paying attention to the lecture. It was stunning. And I couldn’t fathom why he wouldn’t submit it. I knew exactly what it was for since the folder also contained a printed application. After staring and not finding answers, I didn’t even think about what I was doing. When the bell rang, I went straight to the office and slid the folder into Principal Abernathy’s inbox, retreating as the drunkard yelled out that I was gonna be tardy for fourth period. It was between fifth and sixth period.

 

“It’s beautiful,” I say with a bright smile. “Why didn’t you submit it?”

 

“Long story.”

 

“I’ve got time,” I say as I reach out and lay my hand next to one of the yellow dandelions. 

 

“I was late for my shift at the bakery the morning it was due because I stayed up the night before trying to get it done,” he says and then falls silent.

 

“That’s a long story?” 

 

Peeta rubs his neck absently. With the heel of his palm. I don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing. But it tells me all I need to know, confirms what I already suspected. She hit him that morning.

 

“Ma thought I was wasting my time with community service. Neglecting my responsibilities and my family. That the only reason I was doing it was for college applications. And she didn’t think I’d go anywhere, so I was being naive and selfish.”

 

“Proved her wrong, didn’t you?” I say, trying to cheer him up a little. He smiles, but the expression is sad.

 

“You know, Haymitch said something the last time I visited with Chaff. About you.” I shift my feet and try to turn away, but Peeta grabs hold of my hand and keeps me from going anywhere. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

 

“Yes, you do, Katniss. You were there. I remember seeing you after I threw the folder with my submission into the trash. When Haymitch announced my name as the winner, I was stunned and clueless. I always thought maybe it’d been you. We could never seem to look at each other for more than a few seconds. I thought it was because I was an idiot with a crush and you were freaked out about it. Especially after…”

 

Especially after I’d gone to Cray, when something as simple as a look or a smile took on new and sinister implications to me. 

 

“You should have turned it in yourself,” I say and try to shrug. He’s staring at me so intently that I’m not sure I can stand it. So I turn my attention back to the mural. Look away from him. Just like we used to do in school. 

 

In his painting, pristine snow covers the mountains, gradually melting as the painting descends into the valley where wild flowers of every shade imaginable bloom and spread along the bank of the lake. I can almost smell the fresh and fragrant spring breeze that ruffles the grass. It’s a vibrant dash of living color in an otherwise colorless world. I would know his style anywhere now. And after he’d painted this, he painted more often. For school exhibitions and competitions. A scholarship to a summer art camp in District 8 that he didn’t get but placed second for.

 

“This mural is just one piece of what got me my scholarship to the Academy and away from here. They wanted us to have some form of community service. Still think you owe me?” he whispers, standing close enough to me that the words are breathed over the shell of my ear.

 

“I thought you weren’t keeping a tally?” When he doesn’t answer, I look up at him, awed by the smile he’s giving me. The knowing look in his eyes. I stand on my toes and kiss him on the cheek, long enough for my legs to quiver before I lower myself back to the ground. He looks so happy that I can’t stand the thought of ruining his good mood, but he seems to know that it can’t last.

 

“Come on,” he says, twining our fingers together.

 

We’re silent on the walk back to his house. When we reach it, there is no welcoming committee. Peeta lets us in with his key and talks to his Dad in the kitchen for a moment. I stand back, feeling once more like an intruder. When they’re done, Peeta takes my hand and walks up the stairs. I think to flee, but Peeta’s grip on me is so strong, I’m not sure I could get away. I wonder where all of his brothers have vanished to, but don’t have time to ask as he leads us up the stairs.

 

In the hallway outside of a large bedroom, Peeta drops my hand. He takes a deep breath and smiles at me. For a second, I almost offer to go in with him, but then he steps through the door alone.

 

“Hello, Mother,” I hear him say. His mother coughs a few times and groans.

 

“Always late, aren’t you Peeta? I’d hoped the navy would’ve at least beaten that out of you. Or taught you some manners. Showing up here only when you know I’m gonna die. Ungrateful.”

 

She coughs again, and as much as I want to eavesdrop, one of his brothers exits a room down the hall and spots me, he waves me towards him. With a look over my shoulder at the cracked ajar door that hides Peeta from me, I creep silently down the hall towards the brother. It’s Graham, the one with the ponytail. I can’t just stand in the hallway and listen in while Peeta’s talking to his mother, so I follow Graham down the stairs, trusting that he must know better than me how to handle this.

 

Once we’re back in the kitchen, Graham opens the fridge and pulls out a carafe of orange juice. Mr. Mellark is nowhere in sight and I wonder if following Graham was a mistake. Maybe I should be upstairs and talking over Mrs. Mellark so she can’t hurt Peeta. Respect for the dying be damned.

 

“Care for a glass?” Graham asks me. I’d really like something stronger, but I nod and accept the drink from him. “So how long have you and Peeta been together?”

 

My hand freezes with my glass suspended in the air. We didn’t even talk about what we’d tell his family about us. It didn’t seem like an important detail last night or even this morning. I opt for as close as I can get to the truth.

 

“We’re not...we’re friends,” I tell his brother, but I’m thinking of the way he looked at me after our run-in with Delly. The way he held me on the train or the night before. While I cried into his arms over what Plutarch made me do. Or the searing heat of his lips on mine. I’m not sure any of that qualifies us as friends. Graham nods at my answer, though, and tosses an insult to Freckles as he passes through the kitchen and flops down on the couch again.

 

“I just assumed since he brought you here,” Graham continues.

 

“I thought he could use a friend,” I say. Now Leavi has entered the kitchen, poking his head into the fridge.

 

“Yeah, I can see that. Ma’s always been a complicated factor in our lives.” Complicated? Graham’s word choice infuriates me, but it must not show because he keeps talking as though he’s remarking on the weather. “But he’s got five brothers to look after him.”

 

Ah yes. Because they did such a great job protecting him when they were younger.

 

“Five brothers who didn’t show up to his graduation?” I ask instead. Graham’s glass clinks on the counter and I can tell he’s sizing me up, trying to determine his odds of winning against me. I won’t be intimidated. “Or five brothers who couldn’t be bothered to come visit him when he got home from a year at sea?” I ask, not caring if I upset Peeta’s brother. I hurt Peeta once. Twice. Thrice. But I am doing everything I can to right that wrong. Maybe I’m failing, I don’t know, but getting the third degree from his absentee brothers is a little rich. If anything, their responsibility to him should’ve been greater than mine.

 

“Graham,” Leavi warns, but Graham waves away his brother’s concerns.

 

“No, I wanna know what she’s doing so much better than us. Peeta’s never mentioned you before and you show up with him to visit our dying mother?”

 

“Christ, you never listened to him then,” Leavi jumps in again, ignoring the glare Graham throws him. “This is Katniss. Katniss Everdeen? Jesus, he wouldn’t shut up about her when we were kids.”

 

“That’s a crush,” Graham insists. “What’s she doing here now?”

 

“Chill, Graham. Maybe she’s exactly what she says. A concerned friend who just came to support someone she cares about during a rough time. Fuck, if she’s a real friend, she’ll know exactly why this is rough on him. And maybe you should trust his judgement for once. Hell, he was the only one of us smart enough to get so far away from here that Ma and her bullshit wouldn’t follow him.”

 

“That’s not true,” I say, turning my attentions to Leavi. They both stare at me as I rage internally over them arguing about this. How ridiculous. Didn’t she hit any of them, too? Or was it just Peeta who bore her wrath? I think of those bursts of anger I sometimes see in him and how quickly he tries to throttle them. The only time he’s let his anger truly free was when he had too much alcohol in him to be cognizant of what he was doing. And he apologized for it the very next day. How he tries to stifle or shrug off any slight against him, to not turn bitter. He shouldn’t have to police himself that closely, to wonder if he’s turning into the monster that made him. But I can’t linger on my thoughts because his brothers are still gaping at me.

 

“It followed him anyways. What she did to him isn’t some kind of dust you stomp off your boots when you leave a place. It’s not something you can ever fully escape.”

 

Neither of them can look at me and it infuriates me. Even if she hit them or talked to them the same way she talks to Peeta, he was the youngest. They all left in some way when they turned eighteen, leaving Peeta as her sole target for at least a year. Maybe more, I can’t remember all of their damn ages and I really don’t care to right now.

 

I blindly leave the kitchen, ignoring the stares thrown my way, even from Freckles, who must’ve heard the exchange. I push open the back door and walk out onto the back patio. The furniture is covered in a layer of snow so I kick the top step that leads down into the back yard clear of the stuff and plop down.

 

I’m not sure how long I’m out here when the door opens and Peeta’s heavy steps cross the patio before he sits down next to me. I immediately take his hand in mine and search his face for some kind of hurt.

 

“My brothers say you’re sharpening your battle axe. So who’s the enemy?”

 

I snort and shake my head. “Shouldn’t we talk about you?”

 

“Later. Right now I wanna know why they all seem terrified of you.”

 

“The real enemy is stupidity,” I tell him.

 

“Then we’re doomed because I have that in spades.”

 

“No you don’t,” I say and shift to wind my arm through his and sit closer to him. “They wanted to know why I came here with you.”

 

“What did you tell them?”

 

“That we’re friends. And I thought you could use one for this trip. They thought I was passing judgment on what shitty brothers they are.”

 

“They’re not the only shitty brothers in this house,” Peeta says, plucking at his jeans. I rest my head on his shoulder and we stare out into the darkening sky. “I rarely bothered to call after I left. And when I did, we had so little to talk about. I didn’t think they’d care.”

 

“Phone works two ways. So do trains,” I say.

 

“Yeah,” Peeta sighs and turns to kiss my hair. “I have three nephews and six nieces. There was only one nephew and two nieces when I left. I think Amir was onto something about my family.”

 

A chuckle escapes my throat. “We’re going to need more nametags.”

 

His frame shakes with laughter, making my head bounce, but I don’t care. Behind us, the door opens again.

 

“Hey, Love Birds. Dinner’s almost ready. Get in here and be useful,” one of his brother’s calls out. Peeta tells him that we’ll be right in, and I prepare myself to face his family. As we stand, he takes my hand in his and squeezes. And the thought strikes me that I don’t want him to ever let go.

 

************************

 

Trees flash by in black stripes as snow swirls in random eddies in our path, glistening in the brightness of our lights. Soft music plays on the radio. There’s a steady hammering and then blinding white light. A shout. The world shudders and then spins out of control, shattering in twisted steel and crystalline fragments of glass scattered over red stained snow.

 

My nostrils burn with the smell of the explosive powder. I drift in and out of the darkness. Cold seeps into my veins. My bones. A car door slams and someone shouts. Drifting. Drifting. Sirens and the dancing red and blue lights. The buzz of a saw.

 

Then the screaming begins.

 

“Katniss! Katniss!” 

 

I thrash and try to escape, to get to my father. To my sister. Peeta's face swims out of the darkness, lined with concern. His mouth moves but I can't hear him. My father is still calling for me. He was about to get up. I know he was.

 

“Katniss! Ah!”

 

It's my hand hitting warm flesh that finally tears me from the dream. Peeta falls back on the bed, holding a hand over his mouth.

 

“Peeta!” I gasp and scramble through the sheets to reach him. “Oh! Let me look at it!”

 

“I'm fine,” he insists, but moves his hand when I take it in mine so I can see where I've split his lip open. I trip as I scramble from the bed, drag myself and half the sheet into the living area, not caring that my footsteps pound on the floor or that I make an obscene amount of noise as I get some ice from the mini fridge.

 

Wrapping the ice in a cloth, I run back to the bedroom and crawl across the bed towards Peeta.

 

“Nice right hook you got there,” he says and I choke on a sound I'm not even sure qualifies as laughter. He's sitting up at least and I cradle his head in my hand before pressing the ice to his lip.

 

His eyes meet mine in the moonlight and his hand reaches up to caress my face. It's only on the second pass, when his fingers are damp, that I realize I'm crying.

 

“Hey. It's just a fat lip. I've had worse.”

 

“I know! That's the problem!” I break down and sob, and Peeta pulls me into his lap. I'm careful to keep the ice steady on his lip. And then he's crying too. We hold each other until the ice melts and I sniffle before climbing from the bed to get more.

 

“Katniss. Talk to me. Tell me what you see. Maybe it'll help,” Peeta whispers when I return to his lap and apply the fresh ice to his injury.

 

I shake my head, emphatic in my denial. This is my burden to bear.

 

“If I'm gonna be dodging punches, I’d at least like to know what we're fighting,” he says, but he doesn't push. And eventually, I fall asleep in his arms, the bloodied and water-soaked rag falling from my fingertips to the floor.

 

************************

 

Enemy. Memory is thy name.

 

I read that once somewhere. I think. If not, I should have. It's a cruel thing, memory. It builds up in drifts like the snow. Sometimes annoying, sometimes cloying, sometimes never even noticed if you get used to it. And if you neglect it, the effects just build and build. Or it can catch you by surprise.

 

In the morning, I fully intend to go for a walk alone around the lake, to try to forget the things I dream about. But Peeta and his insane body clock thwart me in my plans. He's already up, gone for a run, showered and dressed by the time I even wake. He sits on the bed like a sentry while I shower then doesn't let go of my hand for a second while we're at breakfast.

 

I want to tell him that I'm not a fragile doll. That I’m no stranger to nightmares and this one is familiar. But he also had a point last night.

 

After breakfast, one of his brothers calls to say that their mother’s condition worsened overnight and the doctors don’t think she’ll make it another day. So instead of opening up to Peeta about my nightmares and the night my father and my sister died, I find myself sitting on his parents’ couch, reading a book to several of his nieces while each Mellark brother takes a turn speaking to their mother.

 

I want to grab the glass vase filled with roses nearby and smash it in the fireplace. She shouldn’t be allowed this. She shouldn’t be allowed the chance to torment her children one last time before she dies when my father, who never raised a hand to us and rarely ever raised his voice, died cold and alone in the snow.

 

When I finish the book, I urge the girls to go color for a second and wrap my arms around Peeta to get him to stop pacing the kitchen. His arms surge around me, shuddering slightly as he buries his face in my hair.

 

“Have I mentioned that I’m glad you’re here?” he whispers. I stroke his hair and stand there with him, caught in an embrace that I never want to end and wish that never had to occur all at the same time.

 

Someone tugs on my pants leg and I glance down at one of Peeta’s gap-toothed nieces.

 

“Can I make a green sky in my picture, Miss Katniss? Green’s my favorite.”

 

“Of course you can,” I say as I lower myself to my knees in front of her. “Can I tell you a secret? Green’s my favorite, too.”

 

“Really?” she asks with a smile then shows me her drawing so far. Sophia. That’s her name. I really do need to try and remember them all. Dinner last night with all of Peeta’s brothers plus wives, girlfriends, and children was too hectic for me to even try to keep track of everyone. I just wish I had more time with them. 

 

That reminds me that I never asked Peeta for an explanation about his navy function he mentioned to Delly. Sophia hugs me then scampers back to the small kitchen table to sit next to her sister and keep coloring. I hear her announce that Miss Katniss said it was perfectly fine to make a green sky. One of the other kids rolls her eyes but says nothing.

 

“You’re really good with them,” Peeta says as I stand.

 

“So are you,” I remind him, thinking of how he kept them all entertained at dinner last night. And if either of us should be a parent one day, it’s Peeta. I wouldn’t want my children to live with the shame of having a whore for a mother. Peeta on the other hand, is still pure and good.

 

“Your turn, Peeta,” Leavi says, clapping his brother on the shoulder before storming out the back door. His wife glances between the door and her kids before scurrying after him.

 

Peeta grips my hand and starts walking, taking me with him up the stairs. I’m not sure he’s even aware of my presence as we return to the door that leads to the death chamber.

 

“Will you go in with me?” he asks, his voice small and quiet. And I am seventeen, my feet freezing in the snow, with a boy asking me to just be his friend, if only for a night. I nod and together, we enter on silent feet.

 

Mrs. Mellark lords over the room, even in death. She’s propped up on pillows, blankets piled high on her gaunt frame. She watches every move we make with unveiled suspicion. Machines next to the bed whir with her breaths and beep with her heart. Huh, so she does actually have one. I try to wipe disdain from my face as Peeta lowers himself onto the bench beside her bed. I sit next to him, Mrs. Mellark’s blue eyes watching me the entire way. Deep indigo blue. Like the sky in that moment between sunset and night. It startles me that her eyes are the same shade as Peeta’s. I’ve never been this close to her before. She’d never stand to share breathing room with Seam trash, let alone a prostitute like me.

 

“Who are you?” she rasps through the tubes keeping her alive.

 

“Ma, this is Katniss. She’s a friend of mine.”

 

“Oh Peeta, really?” she asks and coughs harshly for a moment. “Katniss Everdeen? You brought a whore home with you?”

 

“She’s not--”

 

“God, I knew you leaving home was a bad idea. You’re not pregnant, are you?” She directs her sharp gaze at me as she asks. Of course, she would remember me as the town whore. Even though I wasn’t the only one in Twelve who resorted to it.

 

“Mom,” Peeta says sharply, but I squeeze his hand to let him know it’s okay. I’ve survived this ridicule before. I can do it again.

 

“No, ma’am,” I tell her. “I’m not pregnant.”

 

“Good. Don’t be stupid, Peeta. Dump her before she gets knocked up and traps you. God knows you need to do something right in your life, and having a bastard with or marrying a whore isn’t it. You can’t go back from a mistake like that. Would she wear white to your wedding?”

 

Another coughing fit shakes her body, but when it’s done, she leaves me alone. In fact, she acts like I’m not even in the room as she talks in condescending tones to her son. Peeta rigidly speaks to his mother until she starts to nod off. Then he stands, leans over her, and kisses her forehead. 

 

“Good-bye, Mother,” he says and she waves her hand, dismissing us.

 

************************

 

The house reeks of death and no one’s died yet. Maybe because she’s slowly been dying for three years. I can tell that the entire Mellark clan is barely holding together. I wonder if it’s real remorse or if they’re trying to hold in their jubilation at the imminent passing of such a wretch. Or maybe they know that they should be mourning and are confused because they just can’t.

 

Peeta’s dad stands apart from the others, quietly kneading dough again. I wonder if that’s all he does. Knead the dough, make the bread, avoid the problems sitting right beneath his nose.

 

Dropping my hand, Peeta starts to make tea, his motions controlled, but the angry smack of the kettle onto the burner resounds in the kitchen. Mr. Mellark doesn’t even flinch.

 

“Dinner will be at six,” he reminds Peeta, who freezes at the words. He turns on the burner and then faces his father at the island, fire blazing in his blue eyes. I need to get him out of here before he does or says something he’ll regret.

 

“You could’ve said something sooner,” he spits out. I grab his hand, but he shrugs me off. 

 

“Didn’t think it needed to be said until after lunch.”

 

“I meant about Ma, Dad.”

 

“You needed to focus on your studies and your career. You didn’t need to be thinking about what was happening at home.”

 

“So it was better for me to stand up and take my oath alone in front of my friends and classmates with their parents, and their siblings, and even some of their grandparents there to support them, and to think that not a one of you gave a damn?”

 

“Your mother was sick, son. Please lower your tone.”

 

“No. Fuck that!” Peeta shouts, and his father finally stops kneading the bread to look up at his grown son. “I didn’t  _ know _ she was sick because none of you bothered to tell me. What was I supposed to think? Then you all call  _ me  _ selfish and give me shit for never coming home? Why would I bother? This isn’t a family. It’s a nightmare!”

 

I see the flash of pain in his father’s eyes and I grab Peeta’s hand again, tugging to get him out of the house. He follows this time, throwing his arms in his coat’s sleeves and storming from the house without bothering to button it. I grab gloves and hats before I race after him, ignoring the guilt-laden looks of at least two of his brothers.

 

************************

 

I trail behind him, puffing in the mountain air, still unaccustomed to the altitude even though I was born here. I’ve been away too long. I’m not sure he even knows I’m here until we’ve left behind the neighborhoods and duck into the trees, following a path that Peeta seems to know by heart. He stops in a clearing and I recognize a few landmarks. He’s headed back towards our cabin. 

 

For a moment, he stands there and just breathes. Then he hauls in a lungful of air and screams. Birds startle from their hiding places. Crows and scavengers who feast on decay and wreckage.

 

I let him scream until his breath runs out and he falls silent, panting to recover from his outburst. I can’t help but wonder if he’s done this before. Would he have screamed his anger and frustration to the woods that night if he hadn’t stumbled across me? Perhaps this helps him, but I don’t think he’s going to forgive himself anytime soon for this perceived selfishness on his part. And I know a thing or two about facing your own selfishness. Real or imagined.

 

Slowly, I approach, stepping around so he can see me. I warily reach out with his knit hat I grabbed on the way out of the door. He doesn’t move while I put it on his head. Or when I brush away the tears shimmering on his cheeks. He sighs and closes his eyes, leaning into my touch. 

 

Then his hands shoot out to grasp my arms. He doesn’t pull me to him, because he doesn’t need to. I crush myself against his chest and cling to him while he devours my mouth and my quiet squeaks of surprise.

 

The kiss is rough. Teeth knock and tongues work at cross purposes. His hat is lost to the snow as I claw at his hair and his scalp. He hoists me up into the air and I wrap my legs around him, locking my feet together behind his ass and groaning when I feel him hard against my clit.

 

And I am dripping.

 

Peeta backs us into a tree and I leverage myself against it to grind on him. He moans deep in his chest and thrusts back until we’re both panting and frantic and I’m sure I’ve soaked straight through my clothes and onto his. I drop my hands to undo his belt because I want him to fuck me against this tree, and I think he needs it, too. I’ve never wanted it like this before. But as my ungloved hands rub against his skin, he hisses and curses, dropping me and stepping back away from me.

 

“Fuck. Damnit. No,” he says and laughs hysterically as he leaves me propped against the tree. I am aching in my core, burning with a need for him to plunge into me. To make me come and scream and claw his skin raw and feel his teeth dig into me. It’s the second time in days he’s rejected me and my pride burns as badly as my need.

 

“Peeta,” I whimper.

 

“I am not going to rail you against a tree like a fucking beast,” he says with rampant disgust in his voice. I gasp and try to explain to him that I want it. I want him. All I can manage is one pathetic question though.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because you deserve better than that,” he says, raking his hand through his hair. 

 

I don’t. He’s the one who deserves better. Oh my god, I almost drove Peeta to lose his virginity by rutting out in the open with me, a whore. He deserves a plush bed and soft kisses, someone who will clasp his hand and murmur that she loves him when he comes inside her. Like my hallucination in that apartment we went to.

 

My silence must confirm his rightness in his mind, though, because he picks up his hat and yanks it back down over his head. Fastens his belt and then stares back towards his house.

 

“We left the kettle on the stove,” he says. I scramble for something to say. I don’t want to go back there yet. And I know he must not want to either since he hasn’t made a move back down the path.

 

I pull my gloves from my pocket and tug them onto my frigid hands, rub them together to start some circulation. Then I loop my arm through his and turn him in the opposite direction. He offers zero resistance and walks with me through the woods. Eventually, the path narrows enough that we have to take it single file. Scattered snowflakes begin to fall and I hold my hand out to catch one. It melts in the dark red weaving of my glove, as does the next. But then they begin to accumulate, tiny frozen prisms. Each one unique and beautiful.

 

The snow beneath my feet crunches, and I glance up at Peeta, several paces ahead of me, an idea taking shape in my head. I bend over and gather a handful of the stuff, carefully packing it until I have an apple sized snowball. I take aim and launch it.

 

It connects and disintigrates against the back of Peeta’s coat with a puff. He freezes and I giggle. Peeta whirls to face me then shouts, barely ducking my second missile as I lob it at his chest.

 

“Oh is that how it is?” he says, but there’s laughter in his voice.

 

We duck through the trees, launching hastily formed snowballs at one another. They smash into tree trunks, fall uselessly to the ground, or sometimes catch one another on a leg or side. Laughter flies about as quick and inaccurate as our throws. I hide behind a fallen log as Peeta taunts me, forming three snowballs while I listen to his approaching steps. When he’s close, I throw one into the nearby trees. He’s distracted enough that my second almost catches him on the shoulder as I run out from my cover. He’s standing back up from ducking that one when I jump on his back and smash the last icy weapon onto his neck.

 

“AH!” he shouts, collapsing to the ground, taking me with him, and twitching in an attempt to get rid of the snow invading his clothes. I scream and writhe, but he lays on top of me, my wrists restrained in his hand. I laugh in his disgruntled face but then his lips are on me and laughter quickly turns to sighs. When his hand cups my face, cold with melted snow, I shiver and grab hold of his shoulders to pull him closer.

 

When we have to stop kissing to breathe, he rests his forehead on mine, his eyes closed, lashes speckled with drops of melted snow. It continues to fall around us, the world silent in the face of it’s majesty, save for our shared panting. I place my hands on his cheeks and kiss him one more time.

 

“You’re the one who deserves better,” I whisper. “You’ve waited this long for it to be right. For it to be real. Don’t throw it away on something hasty and angry in the woods. That’s not who you are.”

 

Peeta smiles at me then, opening his eyes and looking straight into me. “So how about something slow and loving in the woods?”

 

“Not in this weather,” I tease. “Unless getting frostbite on your ass is on your bucket list.”

 

“Can’t say that it is,” Peeta laughs and stands up, pulling me out of the snow with him. We brush snow off of each other, soft smiles still gracing our mouths.

 

“Let’s go get that tea,” he says as he offers me his arm.

 

************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sooooo...whadya think? Are you enjoying the glimpses into Peeta’s life? There’s more Everlark goodness coming up, and the good news is that the next three chapters are all drafted! Woot! Woot! Chapter seven has even been already shredded, er I mean edited, by my lovely beta, peetabreadgirl, so the wait for an update won’t be too long. My goal is to have this story completed by the end of February...yes, February 2017, lol. Would love to hear your thoughts and questions! <3


	7. Chapter 7

Somewhere near midnight, Peeta’s phone rings, dragging us both from peaceful slumber. He answers groggily, sitting up abruptly and holding his head in his hand, elbow propped on his knee and feet on the floor as he listens to whatever the person on the other end says.

 

“Okay. I’ll be there at nine, then,” he says and then tosses the phone onto the nightstand. A few minutes pass before he speaks again. A whisper that I wouldn’t hear if I weren’t already awake. “Katniss?”

 

I kneel behind him and wrap my arms around his torso. Peeta clasps his free hand over mine, keeping me there.

 

“Ma passed about an hour ago,” he says. I kiss the back of his neck and squeeze him closer to me. “I should be upset, right? My mother just died. But I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

 

I’m no good at this. I don’t know what to say. So I spit out garbage and hope it’s helpful. “Whatever you’re feeling, it’s yours to feel. It’s not wrong, though, Peeta.”

 

“She’s being cremated first thing in the morning, but she wanted a casket and everything, so there’s going to be one. We’re going to carry her urn around in it for the service. I guess Dad made the funeral arrangements weeks ago, so everything’s already set. Starts at nine-thirty. They won’t inter her remains until spring, though. Ground’s too hard with the snow. Hence the cremation.”

 

“At least she won’t have to wait for her funeral,” I say, unashamed that I am disrespecting the dead.

 

“You’re terrible,” Peeta responds, but I can tell he’s trying not to smile as he turns and moves us both so we’re lying back down. He rearranges the covers and I wriggle deeper into the cocoon of his arms. “We should get some sleep.”

 

Do we sleep? I don’t know. Half a million things linger on the tip of my tongue. Wishes and hopes, apologies and explanations. But the day that his mother died probably isn’t the best time to bring them up. How would I start that conversation?  _ Hey Peeta, I know your shit-show abusive mother just died and you aren’t sure how to grieve her, but I really need you to focus on me. _

 

It’s his arms, though, they lull me into a sense of safety. His steady breaths and even the handful of soft snores as he drifts through restless slumber bring me hope. Without speaking a single word, his lips beg for me to spill confessions and truths I’m not ready to face.

 

************************

 

Astrid Felicity Mellark. Hers is an unremarkable funeral. The day dawns cold and overcast, threatening the snow Kalila mentioned. A black hearse arrives at the District Twelve chapel at precisely nine-thirty. Six sons dressed in black, one of them with shining brass buttons on his breast and gold braids on his wrists, slide her casket from the hearse. Graham, who shaved for the occasion, counts to three and they lift the casket onto their shoulders. Effortless.

 

Her sons remain solemn as they walk down the aisle of the church with the casket bedecked in white flowers. Their father and the preacher wait at the front in some twisted reversal of a wedding march. Not even Ryen offers a joke or a smile. But not one of them is crying either.

 

There’s a surprising number of people present, given that she just died last night. So many of them bear a family resemblance that I wonder if the mourners are mainly comprised of Peeta’s extended family. Or the people of Twelve heard that the witch had died and wanted to see it for themselves. I shake off the uncharitable thought, but I’m not the only one thinking it.

 

I hear a mourner behind me comment that it’s lucky she had six sons or she’d never have had enough pallbearers. A neighbor hushes the offender as six Mellark brothers place the casket on display. As soon as they’re done and the preacher asks us to be seated, Peeta makes his way straight for me, sliding into the pew next to me. I ignore the speculative whispers behind us about the handsome Mellark boy in his navy uniform and the girl he’s with. Instead, I focus on holding his hand and never letting go.

 

The sermon is brief, and before long, it’s over. Once more, Peeta and his brothers carry their mother out to the hearse. There will be no graveside memorial.

 

I wait along the side of the chapel as Peeta stands shoulder to shoulder with his brothers and their wives, accepting condolences and well wishes. At one point, Delly approaches me, stands next to me as I watch Peeta.

 

“A sad day, isn’t it?” she asks. I nod, because I have nothing to add. And I ache for Peeta if not for the end of his mother.

 

“I didn’t get to ask what you’re up to these days,” Delly says. I turn and search her eyes for malice. There’s no way she doesn't know what I did to survive all those years ago, and yet she's not mentioned it once. She’s either a superb actress or just genuinely nice.

 

“I live in Two now,” I tell her.

 

“Is that where you and Peeta met up again?” she asks and I nod. “I’m so glad he has someone there who knows where he comes from.”

 

I blink and stare at her while she watches the proceedings, unphased.

 

“I wish I’d been better about keeping in touch, but I guess that’s what happens. People just...drift apart when they no longer have something to share and keep them together. Oh! That’s my brother, ready to leave. I have to take him to work but then I'll be at the wake. See you there, Katniss.”

 

She hurries down the aisle, pausing at each Mellark to hug them and say a few no doubt kind and inspiring words. And I wonder if she’s even a thing of this earth. But then, as she speaks to Peeta, I consider the possibility that maybe pure kindness isn’t as rare as I’d once thought.

 

I turn away and examine one of the stained glass windows. A dark patch on the other side of the glass catches my attention and I press my face to the cold surface to get a better look. A cross in the ground. A grave marker. And not just one, hundreds. My family is buried somewhere out there.

 

“Ready to go?” Peeta asks, setting my coat on my shoulders. I don it and turn to face him as he tugs on his black gloves. He’s wearing the long black overcoat and the white scarf again. Exactly as he was when he stepped off that elevator at the Panem Arms and back into my life. Or at my mother’s funeral.

 

“There’s something I need to do while we’re here,” I tell him.

 

“Sure. Lead the way,” he says solemnly. I wonder if he knows. He must, because he takes my hand and squeezes as we leave the chapel and turn into the graveyard that sprawls out to the west for at least a half mile.

 

We walk through the rows of grave markers to the three standing in a line, just under a dormant willow tree, the name  _ Everdeen,  _ carved in block letters across the tops. I reach out and slowly brush the gathered snow and frost off my father’s first. Then my sister’s. Wishing I had flowers to give to them as I step back and take Peeta's hand. I can't do this while my eyes are open, though, so I close my eyes and start to talk. So he knows why he’s dodging punches in the middle of the night.

 

_ “Dad, I'm getting tired,” I complain as we turn down the highway that will take us home. _

 

_ “Why didn't you say something before we left?” _

 

_ “Well, I…” I stall and bounce my foot on the floorboard next to the brake. _

 

_ My dad shakes his head and turns to hand Prim her mittens. “You almost left these.” _

 

_ “Thanks, Dad.” _

 

_ “Alright, pull over right up here and we’ll switch, Snowflake,” my dad says, unbuckling his belt before I've even got the car stopped. We quickly switch seats, slamming the doors to minimize our time in the cold, and Dad shakes while I buckle my belt. _

 

_ “Brrrrr!” he says with a grin. _

 

_ “Oh! I like this song!” Prim calls from the back seat. “Turn it up!” _

 

_ Dad cranks the dial a tiny amount and ruffles my hair. _

 

_ “Your grandma really appreciates the visits, you know. I'm sorry it makes for such late nights.” _

 

_ “It's okay,” I say. “I already finished my homework.” _

 

_ “Good. Straight to bed when we get home,” he says, putting the car in drive and pulling back onto the road.  _

 

_ “Plus it gets me time to practice driving,” I say pragmatically while Prim hums along with the radio. _

 

_ “You’re doing great, too. You’ll have your license in no time,” Dad says cheerfully. _

 

_ He tugs on his seatbelt, a solid  _ thud  _ sounding as it sticks. I glance out the window at the trees streaking by, stripes of black between them as we speed past. He tugs the belt repeatedly, a steady hammering as he tries to free it. When I look back through the windshield at the snow drifting across the road, headlights flare in front of us. _

 

_ “Dad,” I say as he struggles with the seatbelt, looking down for an instant at what he’s doing. The headlights veer straight into our path. “Dad!” _

 

_ A tremendous crunching fills the night. Glass shatters and rains around us as the car spins out of control. The world blurs and as we flip into the snow on the side of the road. The terrible silence when everything stops moving. My pulse pounds painfully. My ears ring. My cheek and wrist burn. My chest aches and blood rushes to my head. I can’t turn. I can’t move. Then I black out.  _

 

I open my eyes, tears freezing on my cheeks. I startle when Peeta’s thumb wipes them away, but I am unable to look directly at him just yet.

 

“Dad swerved to avoid the other car, but they hit us anyway. The coroner said Prim was killed on impact. They hit her door head on. Dad was thrown from the car, because he still didn't have his seatbelt on,” I tell him things he probably already knows. Things that would have been in the newspaper. But the telling of them won't stop once I start. “And I was trapped. Between my seatbelt and the air bags and the upside down car. But I could see him through my window. I kept losing consciousness then coming to, but I could see him the whole time while we waited for the ambulance. He kept calling our names and trying to get up, but he couldn’t.”

 

My voice cracks on the last word. I step forward before Peeta can do something stupid and sweet like tell me that it wasn't my fault. That it was an accident. I reach out and knock the snow off my mother’s tombstone.

 

“And  _ she _ couldn't look at me after that. Everyone kept saying there was nothing I could’ve done, but she didn't say a word. She just got drunk and then stoned and then high. Lather, rinse, repeat. I don't think she even knew what I had to do to keep us alive. But I couldn't just let her die too. I tried to get her to therapy or rehab or  _ something  _ but she wouldn't go and then we couldn't afford it anymore. I tried to control the money, but I couldn't stand to see her in pain and know that I was the reason. So I let her take the damn drugs. I let her kill herself. And I  _ hated _ her for it because she knew it was my fault and she stopped loving me when I needed her love the most and deserved it the least!”

 

I gulp air and collapse as Peeta's arms wrap around me from behind. We kneel in the snow as I cry over my mother's grave. Ugly sobbing with hiccoughs and distorted vision. I reach out one hand and place it over her name while Peeta holds me together and I scream that I’m sorry and I miss her and I hope she forgives me.

 

By the time I stop, the snow beneath us has melted and soaked straight through the knees of my pants and the thermal underwear I have on beneath. I lean my head on her marker to whisper that I love her and I understand now that sometimes things happen to us that we just aren’t equipped to deal with. 

 

Then I stand on shaky legs, taking Peeta with me. I press my gloved hand to my lips and place kisses on each of their names. So they know that I love them and that they are never far from my heart.

 

“Can we walk a little?” I ask him as I try to wipe my face clean of tears. I know we came here for him, to face the complicated damage his own mother did to him, but I need a few minutes to recover before we face his entire family at the wake.

 

“Yeah,” he says, tucking my arm through his and slowly leading us from the cemetery. I lose track of time and my cheeks turn numb, but Peeta steers us clear of town. We walk through towering trees, frosted and dripping icicles. Sunlight slants through openings, catching shimmering surfaces, turning the woods into something prismatic and breathtaking. Eventually, we stumble across the edges of the lake. We pause on its shores, staring out across the open ice and listening to wind howling in the branches.

 

If it weren't so deadly, it would be beautiful.

 

I tilt my head back and listen to the sounds, savoring the feel of Peeta beside me in the cold. A warm presence I realize now, never left me, even when I tried my best to make him.

 

“I couldn’t forget you either, you know,” I say.

 

“What was that?” he asks.

 

“I couldn’t forget you either. I tried so damn hard to, but you rooted under my skin and stayed there, dormant and quiet until you stepped off that elevator and everything I’d ever felt around you just burst back into life. And I didn’t know how to handle it.”

 

I open one eye to look up at him and he’s grinning. But he shakes his head to get rid of it.

 

“Stop it. Today is supposed to be serious,” he admonishes me, but his lips are still twitching.

 

He’s right, though. We’re expected back at his father’s house, and I’ve had enough time to pull myself back together. Arm in arm, we return to the fray.

 

************************

 

The wake is almost worse than the funeral. Perhaps because we all know these people don’t miss her. Some of them called her “witch” or other variations of the epithet while she was alive. Hardly any of them could call her friend. And all of them looked the other way when her sons showed up with bruises or empty, hollow eyes. But we’re not supposed to be mean to the dead, apparently not even if they were mean-spirited in their life.

 

When my mother died, between the two of us, we’d driven away anyone who we’d call a friend. Poisoned and torn to pieces by the loss of my father and Prim, my grandmother in her sleep before anyone could tell her that her son died first. I guess there’s an expiration time on grief and how long it’s allowed to affect your life. Pass that expiration date, and sympathy dies right alongside your lost loved ones.

 

Peeta remains stoic and solemn through it all. Playing the ever dutiful son, although I catch the flashes of anger in his eyes when someone waxes too poetic about his dearly departed mother. I roll my eyes after one of them gets snot on his uniform and he catches me, tries not to laugh at their overly dramatic display and my response. Otherwise, I keep myself busy entertaining his nieces and nephews.

 

By dinner time, the mourners have all left, leaving just the family behind. One by one, Mr. Mellark asks them what their plans are for the coming days. Even the small table set off to the side for the kids is quiet, the sounds of clinking flatware and solemn answers the only sounds in the room. Depressing. 

 

I consider starting a food fight with the kids, but I’m not sure their suit clad fathers and dress class mothers would approve. So I rest my hand on Peeta’s knee beneath the table and hold my tongue. I’ve already spoken out enough against his family. Anymore might make things worse for him.

 

Graham and his wife will return to their home on the outskirts of Twelve. Wheaton has to go to Five to deal with his divorce proceedings, and then he’ll be back here. Marie, the girl Peeta asked him about, is his soon to be ex-wife, and is leaving him for reasons unknown to us. Wheaton keeps saying that it just didn’t work out.

 

Leavi and his family intend to stay a few more days, since the kids are home-schooled. Bannock will be taking his family Eleven, only a few hours away, to finish their interrupted visit with his in-laws. Ryen still lives in Twelve and works at the bakery with his father. And Peeta tells his father that he has to attend the annual navy ball in a few days. We’ll be leaving tomorrow on the train. 

 

“You can’t stay for at least one more day?” his father asks. Peeta shakes his head.

 

“No, Dad. I’m sorry.”

 

“I understand,” his father says, focusing on clearing dishes off the table. “You have your own life to lead now.”

 

His eyes glance over at me and guilt pushes in on me. It’s clear that Mr. Mellark thinks I have something to do with why Peeta hasn’t returned to Twelve in a while. Or why he has to leave so soon.

 

“I can try to come back and visit sometime this summer, though,” Peeta says quietly. Mr. Mellark nods and leaves his sons at the table to immerse himself in household chores. While their father doesn’t seem interested in making an effort to mend fences, the six Mellark brothers verify phone numbers and make tentative plans, to include Wheaton mentioning a trip to see Peeta in Two for the upcoming holidays. By the time Peeta and I head back to the inn, even Graham is smiling and seems happy with the outcome. If nothing else came out of Mrs. Mellark’s death, at least there was this hopeful start to healing the bonds between her six children. Drawing out the poison her bitterness and wrath infected them all with during her life.

 

When we reach the inn, Peeta and I sort our things and pack our bags as much as we can. Our train won’t leave until late tomorrow afternoon and so we’ll have the entire morning to do whatever we want to do. I’ve seen Twelve. There are no sites left here that I’d want to revisit.

 

“Are you sure you don't want to stay another day?” I ask him as he tries to scrub the stain off his uniform from the overzealous mouner before packing it. “To spend with your brothers?”

 

Peeta tosses the coat on the bed and looks annoyed, but his expression softens when he glances up at me. “I don't want to keep you here too long.”

 

Right. With everything that’s happened, I've been ignoring my deadline. I don't want to think about it right now or else I'll go mad. So I nod and accept his answer, trying not to feel guilty. Maybe he would've stayed here longer if I hadn't forced my presence on him. Just like Peeta to try and balance both of our needs. 

 

After that, we lounge on the bed. Peeta sketches while I read, my feet resting in his lap. It’s quiet and comfortable. He leaves the curtains open so we can see the gentle fall of the snowflakes. Every now and then, one of us will look up just to watch it. By morning, the already covered world will glisten with another layer of newfallen snow. Quiet with the ethereal hush that belongs to winter storms.

 

Eventually, we set aside our distractions and huddle beneath the covers together. We lay facing each other, our hands finding one another’s beneath the blankets, joining together in the dark. I think of the night after I buried my mother. How we fell asleep together on top of my Garfield comforter, the rain drumming on the roof of the trailer I was about to leave behind. And somehow, here we are on the night his mother was essentially buried, snow piling up on the window sill, and a journey ahead of us.

 

When I wake, though, I’ll be leaving with him instead of alone. And as sleep finally pulls me into it’s sweet embrace, I promise myself once more that I will find a way. For me. For him. For my family.

 

************************

 

In the morning, the other side of the bed is empty. I stretch and check the clock, assuming that Peeta must have gone for his morning run, despite the snow. I pry myself from the sheets, taking the blanket with me as I tug aside the curtain and squint at the blinding brightness that greets me. Kalila wasn’t joking. The snow now reaches halfway up the ground floor of the inn. 

 

I head out towards the living areas of our suite, thinking I might read a little before he gets back, when the soft sounds of splashing water cause me to pause. The door to the bathroom is partially shut, so I knock and open the door slowly.

 

“Peeta?”

 

He’s sitting in the tub, the water lapping at his bare chest. The curtain is closed just enough so that from this angle, all I can see is the right side of his upper body and his head, reclining back on the rim of the tub. He lifts his head and stares at me, his reddened eyes telling me that he’s had a rough morning. Or maybe they’re just red from the exposure during his run.

 

“I still haven’t adjusted to the altitude,” I admit, hoping to draw him out to talk to me. “Did you go for a run? Just walking up the stairs nearly kills me. How about you?”

 

“Yeah. Same here. You come to finish me off?” he asks, lips turned in a sardonic smile.

 

I think I laugh. I’m not sure. I am the worst friend in the world for this. I’m not sure what made me think my presence would help Peeta. At my mother’s funeral, I was a wreck. And at his, I cried over my own mother’s grave. Again. I’ve hurt him, the only person left in this world to truly care about me.

 

“Do you know, she never once said ‘I love you’? I can’t remember her ever using those words in my life. Not even to my Dad. And he said it all the time. Always with caveats attached to it, though. ‘I love you, son, but you’ve got to stop angering your mother.’ Or ‘I love you son, but your head’s always in the clouds.’ ‘I love you, son, but you’re gonna need to stay here to help take care of the bakery.’ He threw out ‘I love you’s’ as though that would make up for all the times she never said it.”

 

I shut the door and lean back against it.

 

“When I left, she told me not to embarrass her. That I was too stupid and naive to succeed in anything and that when I inevitably messed it up and came crawling back, she wouldn’t be surprised. I thought they skipped my graduation and pretended I didn’t exist because she hated me and he was either upset that I didn’t stay or was just doing what he always does. Trying to keep things as quiet and peaceful as possible. Just let her rage and go along with what she wants because that's what was easiest. Turns out she was dying. And I was the selfish one. I can’t seem to get past that.”

 

“You weren’t selfish, Peeta. You didn’t know. And you can’t blame yourself for their failings,” I say and take another couple steps into the bathroom. I freeze when his left shoulder comes into view. Dumbfounded, I stare at the riot of colors on his pale skin.

 

“Something wrong?” he asks and I yank my gaze back up to his eyes. He’s laughing at my naive and silly response. I recover from the surprise quickly, though.

 

“You have a tattoo,” I state the obvious.

 

“Lost a dare,” he responds flippantly, but I shake my head and step forward again. He shifts in the water but doesn’t protest my advance. I keep my eyes trained on his as I grip the edges of the tub.

 

“I don’t think so,” I say, hoisting myself up and into the bath. Peeta laughs and makes room for me. The warm water soaks my clothes and sloshes over the edges of the tub. Ignoring his nudity, I settle on his thighs and examine the tattoo.

 

“A ring of barbed wire on your arm, a butterfly on your lower back where no one will see it, the ultimate cliched anchor on a sailor’s bicep, maybe some cheesy quote on your ankle. That’s the kind of tattoo you get when you lose a dare. This--” 

 

I trace a finger over the vibrant swirls of color that start somewhere below the soapy water on his left pectoral, blooming from an ambiguous dark patch right over his heart and sprouting the interwoven vines that I can see. Leafy green vines, fresh and sporting plump berries. Flames that twist and dance with waves of water and morph into flowers. White streaks that I assume are meant to represent the wind, barely visible against his pale skin, interspersed with raindrops and snowflakes in a breathtaking tapestry. The tattoo extends up over his left shoulder, licks down his upper arm and over onto his back where I can’t see the end of it. The style is familiar, though.

 

“This is art,” I whisper, lifting my eyes back up to his. “You drew this. Didn’t you?”

 

“I’m not good enough to tattoo my own shoulder and back with my non-dominant hand,” he says with a cheeky grin.

 

“No, you  _ drew _ it on paper, and then had a tattoo artist recreate it on your body.” My fingers are still tracing over the design as I try to suss out it’s meaning. It must have a meaning. He put too much time and loving care into this design, one that would’ve required multiple trips to a tattoo artist to complete, for it to be an arbitrary image.

 

Fire. I think of fire and I think of the ovens glowing in his family’s bakery. The small burns on his hands and arms from working there as a child. The waves of water are easy. He escaped to the sea. The wind might also be connected to that. The plants and the precipitation I can’t peg with a deeper meaning on my own, but I know they must be important to his life in some way. Whatever it all means to him, I know how it makes me feel looking at it. Alive. Vibrant.

 

“It’s incredible,” I whisper. His fingers trace over my cheek, drawing my attention to his eyes once more. I flatten my palm on over the markings I can’t see, the ones beneath the water, feel the steady thump of his heart beneath the skin. “Did it hurt?”

 

“Nothing I couldn’t survive,” he whispers, his touch drawing me closer, and I wonder if we’re still talking about his tattoo. My heart pounds. As though it’s spent years monotonously drumming away because it must, and has awoken to find a reason to soar and simply can’t wait for a chance to get off the ground. Peeta smiles and everything goes still. 

 

“You got the floor all wet,” he murmurs.

 

I don’t know who moves first. Who erases the space between us. All I know is that I am on fire like his shoulder. Swirls of bright orange, pulses of deep red, and flickers of searing blues. And I want to burn. I want to trace the flames on his body with my tongue. To taste them. Let him paint matching ones on my skin with his tongue, the way he’s doing to my mouth. I want. I want. I  _ want _ . 

 

His arms twine around me, holding me flush against him as lips and tongues tangle. Vines of want tracing lines of need. My chest aches with the need to breathe but I dare not let him go. He surges from the tub, sending a tidal wave over the edges as he shifts us so I’m clinging to him and floating on my back in what remains of the water. His hands fumble behind me and then the bath water begins to drain, a spray of cold water douses us from above. I gasp at the shock but it quickly warms and he stands with us, yanking the curtain shut the rest of the way.

 

His fingers trace the hem of my shirt, rubbing the material between the rough pads as he looks at me for approval. Silently, I give it, lifting my arms from his shoulders as he peels the shirt over my head. It gets stuck for a second and we laugh, but then I’m free and he flings the shirt over the curtain bar. It lands wetly on the tile floor and I giggle at the noise.

 

Peeta steps back, his eyes caressing over me in my wet pajama pants and cotton bra. The way he looks at me, savoring and tender...I’ve never had anyone look at me that way. And I finally find the courage to let my own gaze wander over him. His toned upper body is no real surprise, it’s when I reach his navel that my nerves kick in. 

 

I’m not new to naked men. And even though Peeta knows this about me, he doesn’t flinch or hide himself from me. He simply stands there and waits for my reaction. But I don’t know how to react. Not to the black bird inked onto his heart, wings spread and back arched, the tails of the creeping elements that climb over his shoulder clenched in it’s talons. And I especially don’t know how to react to the trail of blonde hair leading down from his belly button, nor to his cock, hard and erect. Thick. I hold myself rigid, uncertain what to do.  _ Wanting _ to reach out and feel him, to trace the bird the way I did the flames and the waves. To palm him and hear him sigh and moan again, to know the sensation of his most intimate skin on mine without anything between us.

 

Instead, I reach for his hands, still limp at his sides and step closer. I keep my eyes on his, and see in their blue depths that I set our pace. However fast or slow we move, it’s my choice. I lift his hands and pull them around to my back until they’re close to my bra clasp. He ducks his head, breathing on and kissing my ear, his lips tickling me as he works the clasp loose. He’s in no hurry, and I take the time to outline the bird and the white stripes on its underwings, then caress over his shoulders again. Who ever thought shoulders would be an aphrodisiac? I can’t touch him enough.

 

He drops the loose ends of my bra, his broad palms caressing up to my shoulders, thumbs hooking into the straps. Caressing down until the garment drops to my hands. I flip it over the bar as his breath hitches and his hands grip my shoulders.

 

“Katniss,” he pleads as I reach for my pants.

 

“Help me, Peeta,” I whisper. He licks his lips and swallows, but his hands trace down over my torso, brushing the sides of my breasts and making me shiver. It takes both of us, several shimmies, and more laughter before my pants and panties join my shirt and bra on the other side of the curtain. But then we are wrapped around one another with no barriers between us but the drops of water that slide between and cling to our skin before descending to the shower floor. Lips. Hands. The slide of bare flesh. Frantic kisses and desperate moans. My voice joins his and I tip my head back, letting the steaming water wash me clean of everything but his hands and his mouth. His breath expelled over my skin.

 

“Peeta,” I beg for more as his mouth rediscovers my breasts and I cry out in joy because I feel it again. The sensations that awoke fear in me at the lake so long ago. But I don’t fear them this time. 

 

His lips continue their trek as he murmurs to my navel that this feels like a dream. I laugh at his disbelief, but then his tongue swirls over my hip, sending a jolt through my entire body. I grip his hair and tug his head back, forcing him to look up at me through a deluge of water. I need him to know.

 

“You’re not dreaming, Peeta.”

 

My words light a fuse in him and suddenly his hands and mouth are everywhere. He remains on his knees, but then his teeth scrape over my thigh. I open for him, nearly shrieking when his tongue traces delicately over my lips. My knees buckle, but he lifts one hand to splay on my abdomen, pushing me back and propping me against the wall. I grip his hand on my chest and his hair as his mouth and fingers wring needy moans from my throat and release a torrent of feelings I’d locked away years ago, fluttering birds that just discovered the door to their cage hanging open. And I can’t look away from his blue eyes, watching me, answering my every reaction with a kiss, a lick, a caress that only makes my need greater.

 

He moans and I scream his name as the vibrations send me soaring. So high that the world recedes and currents of joy hold me suspended there. I slide down the wall as they recede and Peeta supports me, laying down on the tub floor with me stretched on top of him, the water cascading onto my back as I gasp for air and a sense of reality.

 

Peeta’s fingers sketch lazy patterns on my hips, his mouth dropping soft kisses to my hair and my forehead. Exhaustion pulls at my limbs, and I consider napping right here in the tub on top of him. But the water is growing cold. So I let him help me stand. Let him towel me dry and grab his hand when he offers it to help me step from the tub. I dry and comb my hair while Peeta stands next to me, shaving. When our eyes meet in the mirror, he smiles. I follow him back into the bedroom, taking the time to admire the back view of his shoulders and more. His tattoo curves and spreads across his back, an inked baldric embedded in his skin, a glorious plumage for the bird on his heart.

 

“You wanna get back in bed and sleep for a bit?” he asks. I glance at the rumpled sheets, at the world beyond our wide windows with the silent snow. And I can’t think of a better way to spend the rest of our morning than wrapped in one another’s arms, warding off the memories that threaten to descend and tear us to pieces at any moment.

 

We dress in fresh pajamas and slide beneath the sheets, easily falling into an embrace with the blankets pulled up to our eyes. I still drift in and out of hellish visions of careening cars and flashing lights, my shouts for my dad to  _ Watch Out _ . But Peeta’s there to wake me and hold me. Even when my dreams wake only me, the steady warmth of his arms around me and the cadence of his breathing helps me maintain my grip on reality.

 

At one point, I place my hand over his chest, just to feel the thudding of his heart against my palm. He stirs while I sit there, staring at my dark hand on his pale skin. The ink beneath my palm. I like that he’s sleeping without a shirt now.

 

“Hey,” he says with a sleepy smile. “We haven’t missed lunch yet, have we?”

 

“I don’t think so,” I answer. His tongue darts out over his lips, dried from the sleeping breaths that passed over their parted surface. My body responds to the sight, immediately flushing at the memory of his lips and tongue on me. And oh, how I want him to do it again. How I want to tell him that he’s the only one who’s ever tasted me like that. To make me lose myself and understand the pleasure people pay to chase. How short it falls when it’s not with someone you love. But more than that, I want to return the favor. 

 

_ Let me make you feel good too. _

 

I blink at the soft intrusion of memory and smile as I realize what Peeta must think the right reasons are. Not to settle a debt. Not because I feel obligated after he made me come. But because I want him to feel good. And I do. I want to be the one to make him feel good. So before he can suggest we get dressed, I roll myself on top of him and kiss him. He sighs and leisurely kisses me back. As we kiss, I open my legs to straddle him, roll my hips and feel him slowly growing hard against me. His own hips rock with me, and I gasp into his mouth when his hardened cock rubs against my clit. 

 

Our lips part and I stare at him as he smiles, his hands resting lightly on my hips as he guides me in grinding over him. I started this to please him, but I can’t seem to stop chasing my own release. I arch and moan, and Peeta whispers to me, encourages me to take what I want. I feel it coil low in my belly as I stare down at him, flushed cheeks and eyes blown wide and deep royal blue with awe and desire. And then it springs loose.

 

I shudder above him and he keeps my hips moving until the last tremor passes. I collapse on top of him, confused by this world he’s opened up for me. There were times with Gale when I thought I could enjoy sex. It could feel good. I even came a few times with him. But it wasn’t this collision and enfolding of hearts and souls. This inescapable tide between us that Peeta’s awoken in me. His hand caresses over my hair as I press a sloppy kiss to his chest. His cock twitches against me, reminding me that he’s given and not received yet. Screw tally’s and owing. I just want him to scream my name and never forget just how good I can make him feel.

 

There’s a technique to a blow job. A reason they call it a job. It’s hard work, craning your neck and moving at near impossible speeds with something ramming down your throat. I’ve never liked giving them. But this one is different. Not for money. Not to survive, but purely for the pleasure it will give to Peeta. I try to turn off my brain and just feel. It isn’t easy. Years of this being perfunctory and a means to a payday get in my way at first.

 

As I kiss a path down his chest, pausing to pay close attention to his heart, to lick the flames of his tattoo, his skin spasms and his breath hitches repeatedly. As I hook my fingers in the waistband of his pants, his fingers curl in my hair and he tries to pull me off of him. 

 

“Katniss,” he says softly. I continue, determined to show him just how desirable he truly is. His erection springs free and Peeta’s tugs on my hair grow more frantic.

 

“Not if you don’t want --  _ Agh!”   _ He shouts as I lick his cock from base to tip. I glance up and meet his gaze as he watches me kiss him on the tip. I’ve never done this without a barrier and the foreign taste, the lack of latex confuses my senses. But I’m curious. I  _ want  _ to know his taste. And only his. As I swirl my tongue around his head and Peeta whines, I soar with a newfound power. This act, once degrading to me, becomes something new. 

 

“I want,” I tell him and keep going. He doesn’t protest again. Bracing one hand on his thigh, and holding him still with the other, I swallow his length and enjoy the desperate sounds he makes. The clenching of his thigh beneath my palm as he tries to control himself. At one point, he lets go of my hair to grip the sheets. I slow down a little, wanting to maybe tease him some, to make it last as long as he can make it. 

 

He holds himself rigid, his motions beneath me spasmodic, but his moans are a symphony, the way they catch on high gasping notes as he tries to choke them off. My hair gets in the way, and his hands return to gather it up as his body bows towards me and his face twists in pure pleasure.

 

“Katniss!” he gasps. “Gonna...gonna come!”

 

I slide my mouth off of him and watch in awe as his entire body shudders. Desperate sounds still stuttering from his throat as my hand pumps him and his cum spurts over his abdomen and chest. He’s still beautiful. Flushed and spent and staring at me as though I’ve just given him the best ten minutes of his life. His arms shake as he holds me over him. But slowly, the tremors of his body smooth out and he relaxes back on the pillows. Frees his hands from my tangled hair.

 

With a smile all for myself, I grab a few tissues from the box on the bedside table and begin wiping up the mess. Curiosity takes me, though, and I dip my head to lick up the small amount near his left nipple. It’s salty and weird. He groans and writhes underneath me, his hands tugging on my shoulders and pulling me up to his mouth. I balk, thinking there’s no way he’d want to kiss me after where my mouth has been, but Peeta leaves no room for doubt or holding back with this kiss.

 

***************************

 

Despite the sad reasons for our visit to Twelve and my break down in the cemetery, I dread our return to Two. I still don’t know what I’m going to do about Plutarch. I am fueled by hope for now, but as we leave behind our temporary haven, thanking Kalila for a lovely stay, I can’t stop the resurgence of panic. I have four days if I’m lucky. It’s not enough, and the consequences this time are much greater, a fact punctuated by the brief kiss Peeta presses to my lips as he hands me my suitcase at the train station.

 

Three of his brothers meet us just inside the doors. A surprise, but Leavi, Ryen, and Bannock talk to Peeta and joke around as we wait for our bags to be checked in and loaded onto the train. They hug me and wish me a safe journey and a hope to see me next time Peeta comes home. Their welcome makes my heart turn over.

 

The entire train ride, I cling to Peeta. The closer we get to Two, the more reality presses down on me. Fear claws at my throat, nearly spilling a thousand confessions to him. But I can’t drag him any further into this world than I already have. Despite Johanna’s assurances that Plutarch doesn’t know about Peeta, there is still a chance that he does know and hasn’t shared that knowledge with Jo. It is fear of that possibility that screams loudest for my attention. My hand curls on Peeta’s chest, right over the spot where I know the black bird is tattooed, where I would feel his heart drumming steadily if my own pulse weren’t drowning out everything else right now. And I try not think about the probability that I will have to let him go.

 

************************

 

I drop my suitcase in my bedroom and stare at the bed, nauseous at the thought of sleeping in it ever again. I never had a client in there. It was always my sacred place. This apartment, that bed, were supposed to be mine. But the spectre of Plutarch’s concerns and threats has stolen even this from me. This apartment is not my home. It never really was.

 

The fear and doubts clamor for my attention. My four days looming as a terrible spectre. What happens if I can’t find anything? I will have to go back to taking clients. My lunch threatens to make a reappearance as I think of what that will do to me. Of what it will do to Peeta. Losing him may damage me beyond repair, but I can’t betray him like that, which only leaves me with one viable option.

 

“So, did you want to unpack? Should I, um...?” Peeta stumbles over his words and I look up at him, his duffle bag leaning against my doorframe. We didn’t discuss what would happen when we got back here.

 

“I think you should go back to your place,” I say, my voice scratchy. “For now.”

 

“For how long?” he asks, walking into the room, his lips twitching in suppressed anger. Anger is good, and I know it makes me terrible, but if it protects him, I need him to be angry. The monster he doesn’t want to be. Just for a few days, so I can get this straightened out. Then I can worry about earning his forgiveness. Or about letting him go.

 

“When were you going to tell me?” he demands an answer.

 

“When were you going to tell me about this navy ball?” I ask instead, crossing my arms and falling apart inside because I don’t want to hurt him. Not after what happened between us in Twelve. But I don’t know any other way. My performance must not be convincing, though, because Peeta tilts his head at me and scoffs.

 

“It’s not gonna work this time, Katniss. I don’t know why you’re trying to get rid of me, but it’s not going to work.”

 

The fears that I’ve ignored and repressed since we left here three days ago creep slowly through my veins. Why can’t he just understand that I am no good for him? Why does he insist on trying to see the best in me when it’s not even there to begin with? Everyone else knows it, even his mother. And as he reaches towards me, probably to comfort me and vow something stupid like standing beside me through it all, I lose it.

 

“I’m a whore, Peeta! Or have you forgotten that? I don't belong in your life!” I yell at him.

 

“I don’t care!” he yells back.

 

“You don’t care that I’ve fucked enough men to probably crew your ship? Your mother was right! I will never be able to erase that!”

 

I stare him down and will the tears not to fall. For him to understand that I will never be good enough for him. He lifts one eyebrow and returns the stare, not backing down as my chest heaves. I want him to leave. I want him to stay. I want the chance to slap my seventeen year old self before she walks out on him. And then, Peeta does something truly infuriating. He  _ smiles _ at me.

 

“Am I supposed to care now?” he asks. “Because I don’t.”

 

“It doesn’t bother you at all?” I breathe out the question, all of my rage evaporating faster than it came on.

 

“I can’t say that it’s  _ never  _ bothered me, but not for the reasons you think. The only thing that bothers me now is that I might not be able to live up to your expectations.” 

 

“My  _ what _ ?” I ask dumbly.

 

“You had to have been with  _ someone _ better than me, certainly more experienced, and I don’t know that I can live up to those expectations.”

 

I think of every last one of the men I’ve been with, how none of them have been concerned with me. Not really. The only one who could even remotely make that claim is Gale. And Peeta, sweet Peeta, who’s never had full on sex with anyone, who has made sure that I’ve come every time he’s touched me, if only because he cares enough to learn how, who has held me and laughed with me, quietly believed in me every step of the way, is worried that I’ll be comparing him to all those men. I am, but he wins every round. No competition.

 

“You don’t live up to them,” I whisper. “You annihilate them.”

 

He blinks, confused. “I don’t understand.”

 

“Which is why you have to go,” I insist, placing my hands on his shoulders and trying to physically push him out my door. He won’t move, though. Solid as a rock. When I step back, unable to budge him, he smirks and crosses his arms over his chest.

 

“It’s an annual formal ball. Bunch of admirals pat themselves on the back for another year of successfully protecting our shores while the rest of us are required to dress up and attend to make them look good. I didn’t mention it because I didn’t know if you’d even want to go with me,” Peeta says, ignoring the other issue we’ve yet to deal with.

 

“I don’t,” I insist, but I am picturing Peeta in that black and white uniform of his that he showed me, the formal one with the tails on the coat, almost like a tuxedo. Peeta smiling and handsome, spinning some undeserving girl around the dancefloor. The girl in the lavender dress. And I realize, as much as my life is still up in the air, I don’t want to be left alone in the cold, hating myself and crying over soiled boots this time.

 

“I haven’t been to one yet, but I hear the food is excellent,” he says with a sly smile, as though he can sense my weakening resolve, and I glare at him. His smile falters and he takes my hands in his. “Katniss, I know we still have a lot to figure out, but I want you there with me. I thought I’d just go alone until...well until what happened these past few days.”

 

“Peeta,” I plead with him to understand.

 

“The thing is, I was kind of hoping that after all we’ve been through, maybe you’d finally tell me what’s really holding you back.”

 

“Nothing,” I insist, and he shakes his head, not letting go of my hands as I try to tug them free.

 

“No, there’s something you’re still not telling me.”

 

I turn my head away and try not to cry. Eventually, he gets the hint. With a sigh, he grasps the strap of his duffle bag and hefts it up onto his shoulder.

 

“It’s the night after tomorrow, and I would be honored if you agreed to go with me. But I understand if I’m asking too much. Either way, though, you’re not pushing me away again over some unfounded fear that I’m going to judge you for your past.”

 

He takes a step towards me, his lips hovering over my ear, his warm breath tickling, soothing, and somehow arousing too.

 

“Some of it may be difficult for me to hear. I know that. Some of it may make me angry and sometimes jealous of them. But I know that’s not fair to you, and it’s something that  _ I  _ have to deal with. You may only be able to tell me pieces at a time. I can wait. You may never tell me everything, and that’s okay, too. But none of it will change the way I feel about you. 

 

“Katniss, I want to spend every possible minute of the rest of my life with you. Curled up in bed, sketching while you read, laughing on the beaches, finding the best food this city has to offer, listening to you complain when you’ve had a rough day, fighting with you when I do something stupid and can’t admit it at first. Holding you while we make up. Kissing you first thing in the morning and last thing at night. Making you moan my name when I get you to come. I want all of it, if you’ll allow it. And your past won’t erase that desire.”

 

He presses a kiss to my cheek, and I reach out to keep him from leaving. My hands shaking as they fist in his coat.

 

“I don’t know if I can,” I whisper. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. “If I can't find a job in four days...I’ll have to…”

 

I can't even say the words and I can see from the way Peeta is fighting back anger that he understands. 

 

“Come with me to the ball. If it’s a disaster, I’ll leave you alone to take care of whatever you need to do,” he whispers. “But Katniss, it won’t be a disaster. Will you let me help you then?”

 

I find myself nodding in agreement. It’ll be at night anyways. There’s not much in the way of job hunting I can do at that time. And maybe when he realizes how poorly I fit into his world, he’ll let me go. I try not to think about how much that will hurt as he kisses me, dropping his bag back to the floor so he can wrap me in his arms.

 

*************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to peetabreadgirl: beta reader, cheerleader, and slap in the face when it’s needed extraordinaire. Three chapters to go, peeps! Tell me what you think. I live for your comments.


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, the world presents itself to me in a fractured mosaic before I rub the sleep from my eyes. There’s something about sleeping next to Peeta that makes everything seem remediable in the mornings. And as I stare at his bag leaning against my wall, open and spilling some of its contents on my floor, an impossible smile takes over my face. I am supposed to attend a formal ball with a date. Who isn’t paying for me. I’m going because I want to be there with him. Because he wants to be there with  _ me. _

 

I have no idea what to wear to something like that.

 

Tucking my chin in my pillow and hugging it to my chest, I watch the clouds outside drift lazily across the sky. I wonder what they must see up there, weightless but at the mercy of the winds. My stomach grumbles, and I leave the bed behind. Peeta will be back from his run soon, so I start breakfast. 

 

Today, I will need to focus on finding  _ something _ in the way of a job. I’m running out of time, and it’ll only hurt more if I go back to taking clients full time. Should that happen, I’ll have to choose between two different kinds of starvation. Already I know which I must choose, and it threatens to break me, as it almost did last night. I will have to remove Peeta from my life, to give him a chance at the real love he deserves. And then I really will have lost everything.

 

Instead of focusing on that and succumbing to terror, I channel my energy into preparing food. While the French toast cooks, I dig my phone out of my purse. I never turned it back on when we got back, and last night, I forgot. Easy to do with Peeta’s arms wrapped around me and his lips on mine. A few seconds after the phone is powered back on, it chimes with missed calls and messages. Apprehensive, I check the numbers and quickly call her back.

 

“Cecilia?” I ask when I reach her extension.

 

“Katniss! My goodness, I am so glad to hear from you! Where have you been? I’ve been so worried!”

 

“I had to leave town for a funeral,” I tell her. “A friend of mine, his mother died.”

 

“What? Oh honey, my condolences to your friend, I just, are you alright?” Her words jumble together, and I smile and flip our French toast.

 

“I’m fine. I have a bunch of messages from you, but I didn’t listen to them yet.”

 

“Oh! Yes! I found you another job possibility,” she says brightly. As she rambles off the information, I grab a pad of paper and scribble notes, my hopes lifting with each word she says. This one has potential. Finally.

 

“Thank you!” I say excitedly. When we hang up, I rush through getting breakfast on the plates, covering it with foil to keep it warm. I shower and dress for a job interview. Peeta walks in just as I finish. I pause to throw my arms around him and kiss him, heedless of the sweat clinging to his skin.

 

“Have a job interview! Gotta go! Breakfast is in the kitchen! I’ll call you later!”

 

I am a blur of motion and have to pause to catch my breath when I reach the museum Cecilia named as the location for my interview. Once I’m calm, I walk sedately inside the offices, giving my name to the receptionist. Within minutes, I’m shown inside a cluttered office, plants lining the window. A middle aged woman smiles and stands from behind the desk, extending her hand towards me.

 

“Good morning,” I say, accepting her hand. “I’m Katy Green.”

 

“And I’m Amelia Seeder,” she says, waving towards the chair in front of her desk. “Now, let’s discuss qualifications.”

 

I nervously take my seat and she picks up a sheet of paper, one of the applications Cecilia had me fill out. Then she crumples it up and throws it into the trash can. My heart sinks, as I wonder why she agreed to interview me in the first place.

 

“Let’s start with your real name, shall we?”

 

“I don’t under--”

 

“Okay, how about a story instead,” she says, standing from her chair and picking up a framed photo from a table beneath the window. She hands it to me and I look at the family. A mother and father and their six children. 

 

“This is my sister-in-law’s family. My brother,” she points to the father, “vanished from Eleven shortly after their youngest was born. He left to find a better job opportunity, but no one heard from him again. For a long time, she raised the children by herself, working the orchards. She died two weeks ago, leaving me the guardian of my six nieces and nephews. Now my first instinct was to hire a nanny who had references from here to District Nine. A firm hand. But none of the people I interviewed fit quite right with our needs. Then I started talking to a friend of mine from my time at the university. Cecilia. I respect her opinion in the matter, given the line of work she’s in, and she suggested finding someone who might understand what the children are facing. You lost your parents?”

 

“Yes,” I say softly. I tell her the abbreviated version of the story. That my father and sister were killed in a car crash. My mother passing shortly after, succumbing to her drug addiction.

 

“How did you survive?” she asks. I swallow my fear as she pins me to the chair with her brown eyes, I look down at the frame and smile at the picture of the young girl who I would guess is the oldest, standing on her toes and leaning in towards her mother, holding a newborn. For some reason, her birdlike pose makes me think of Prim. And I tell Amelia Seeder the truth.

 

************************

 

As I leave the museum in a daze, my feet steer me towards the hospital. She’s giving me a second interview. A chance to meet the children and see if I’m compatible with them. I almost can’t believe the things Amelia Seeder said to me, about wanting a role model for them who had survived the worst of poverty, like they’ve had to do alongside their mother. Someone who clawed her way free of it, who could help them adjust to life with Ms. Seeder and the comforts of a full belly. Of having their basic needs met plus more.

 

She’s unmarried and works full time at the Natural History Museum, and she needs me to care for them for a few hours before and after school, on holidays, during summer vacation, and on the occasional weekend. I find myself hoping that the children like me.

 

I reach Glimmer’s room in the hospital without really realizing where I was headed and freeze at the sight that greets me. One of the nurses sits at the end of her bed, reading lines from a book and smiling as he pauses and Glimmer takes over, delivering the next lines in whispered tones without even glancing at the page. They both smile, wearing their joy on their faces as if it’s made of the lightest tulle. When she sees me, she blushes and stammers.

 

The nurse stands and hands the book to her, clearing his throat.

 

“So I’ll be back in an hour to check on you, alright?”

 

“See you then, Cole,” she says, shyly waving at him and watching him leave. A slow smile spreads over my face. I was never good with girl talk and gossip, but the way Glimmer now fiddles with her hair couldn’t be more obvious.

 

“You have a sweetheart,” I tease her and her face flames.

 

“Stop it, Kat. We both know he’d never really love me,” she says. For some reason, this infuriates me.

 

“Why not?” I ask and sit on the bed in the spot Cole just vacated.

 

“Well for one thing,” she waves her hand over the scars on her face from where Cato’s blows cut open the skin. “And Plutarch would never allow it.”

 

“What if he did?” I ask her. “What if he didn’t have a choice?”

 

“That’d be the day,” she says, rolling her eyes and then fingering the book. It’s another play. “Did you ever want to be something else?”

 

“Anything else,” I admit, curling my legs up and hugging them to my chest. It appears to be the day for confessions.

 

“I wanted to be an actress, on the stage,” she says and then looks up at me, her green eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “There was this man who promised me a decent acting job and I believed him. Then when we got to what he said was my audition, it was dark and deserted. There were two more men. And he told me that I had to earn my audition.”

 

She takes a deep breath and I hold her gaze, sensing where this is going. Anger boils inside of me at all the ways we wind up spreading our lips and legs for money. Forced to do it, manipulated into it, do it or starve. That it’s only after we start that we realize we’ve built our own prison and the wardens have no intention of giving us back the keys.

 

“That was the first time I sucked a man’s dick,” she says quietly.

 

I absorb her story and reach out to take her hand. She smiles and tries to shake off the past.

 

“Needless to say, it wasn’t an audition for stage acting, but for this. When I tried to leave, I did it by convincing Plutarch I could be an asset to him. He got me free from my pimp. I figured it’d be much better as an escort than just a pimped out hooker.”

 

“Sarah, I’m so sorry,” I say. She covers her mouth and cries a little.

 

“You know my name,” she whispers.

 

“Yeah,” I admit. “Mine is Katniss.”

 

She fans her face and finally gets her tears under control. “Cole deserves better than a beat up, washed up whore. He’s a good person. He can’t really want me.”

 

“Isn’t that up to him to decide?” I ask her and she considers this for a moment while the words I’ve just asked her sink in.  _ Isn’t that up to him to decide _ .

 

“You know what,” she says. “You might be onto something.”

 

We read and talk for awhile, and I relearn what it means to have a girlfriend. Cole returns, blushing and ineptly flirting with her as he checks her vital signs. If it weren’t so cute, I might be disgusted. She’ll be released in a few days, now that the fear of internal bleeding is passed and her jaw has healed enough for her to eat soft foods. 

 

When I leave the hospital late in the afternoon, I am a mess of confusion, questions, and a new set of doubts, plus a strange sort of confidence I lost when I was sixteen years old, in the blood soaked snow on the side of the roads of Twelve. 

 

Isn’t it up to him to decide what he wants? And the thing is, Peeta’s already decided. He’s made that inescapably clear. He may have decided years ago, only I made sure that we didn’t have a chance. Until now.

 

My feet carry me next to Cinna.

 

“Ah, Katniss,” he greets me warmly when I enter his salon. “It has been too long.”

 

“It has,” I say as he embraces me. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

 

************************

 

I return to my apartment after an hour with Cinna and pack an overnight bag. I don’t want to spend tonight here again. I want to spend it with Peeta, at his place. On light feet, I make my way to his apartment, knocking and staring at the door, confused by the laughter within. 

 

Peeta opens the door and something flickers in his eyes when he sees me. His smile evaporates as another voice calls out to him.

 

“Who’s the visitor, Peet?”

 

My jaw drops open as Peeta holds up a hand, as though to keep me from losing my temper. But I can’t help feeling betrayed by him as I push my way inside and find Darius with a beer in one hand and a stack of crackers in the other.

 

“Oh,” Darius says, giving Peeta a knowing look before smiling at me. “So you’re what’s been distracting him since he got home, huh?”

 

Behind me, Peeta shuts the door and I try not to throw something at him. I can’t believe he’s still friends with this asshole after everything.

 

“That would be me,” I say through gritted teeth as Darius juggles his beer and crackers to hold them all in one hand, wipes his right hand on his pants to rid it of crumbs, and then offers it for me to shake.

 

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Darius,” he says with a bright grin. Because of course he doesn’t recognize me without the heavy makeup and my flirtatious simper or the artificial cleavage courtesy of a push-up bra. Or maybe he drank enough booze that night to remove or blur my face in his memory.

 

“Pleasure,” I sneer, thinking of Madge and her quiet bravery, and Glimmer thinking she’s not worthy of someone’s love, and this guy’s hands up Jo’s underwear while his fiancée sits somewhere, unaware that she’s been cheated on before their marriage starts. And isn’t it all the same in the end? All of them taking what they want or think they somehow deserve, uncaring who they damage beyond repair in the process. I don’t touch his hand and he looks between me and Peeta, uncertain.

 

“Katniss,” Peeta starts and I whirl on him, shoving him in the chest with both hands. He staggers back, probably more from the shock than anything else.

 

“Tell me again what you said to me last night, Peeta,” I snarl, expecting his anger and getting pain in his eyes instead. Still I can’t stop. “How are you still friends with this cheating piece of scum?”

 

“Cheating?” Darius asks in confusion. 

 

I whirl back around and open my mouth to yell at him, too, but Peeta’s arms wrap around me and he lifts me from behind. I screech and wriggle in his arms, demanding he put me down. He carries me into the bedroom and shuts the door with his foot before dropping me on the bed. I bounce and come up swinging as frustration and fear and anger combine in a terrible storm inside me. Peeta catches my hands and begs me to stop for two minutes so we can talk about it.

 

“Talk about what, Peeta? A bunch of lies about how it’s not cheating if it’s at a bachelor party? Or better yet, if it’s paid for? Just supporting a girl down on her luck, right? How about his fiancée? Has anyone thought about how she’d feel? How can you be friends with him? How?!”

 

“He didn’t sleep with Jo,” Peeta says quietly.

 

“Bullshit!” I scream, as loud as he is quiet. “You were fucking blitzed that night! How the hell would you know?”

 

I don’t care that Darius is still in the living room and can hear everything that I screech. He’s bound to remember my face at some point.

 

“Because he told me,” Peeta says and I laugh maniacally in his face.

 

“And you believe him? How can you be so--”

 

“So what, Katniss?” Peeta cuts me off, dropping his hands from me to clench his fists at his sides. “Stupid? Naive?”

 

I stagger back as the words slap me. I shake my head. No, that’s not what I was going to say, was it? He’s not. But I am terrified that he’s right. That I was about to call him one of those things, too angry and hurt and focused on protecting myself to think about what I was saying or how it might hurt him.

 

“Yes, I believe him, Katniss. Because he’s my friend and I trust him,” Peeta says emphatically.

 

“And the others there that night? I suppose they’re all innocent in this, too. You call  _ them _ your friends, don’t you?” I whisper. Peeta shakes his head.

 

“You don’t know a thing about who I’m friends with. And you don’t know what Darius has been going through since that night--”

 

“Oh yes, I feel so sorry for him. He got to screw one of the most in demand escorts in this city and now he’s maybe feeling guilty about it? He’s a fucking liar!” I finally get my feet on the floor and I march towards the door.

 

“Is it really that hard for you to believe that a guy might not take every chance presented to him to have sex? Or change his mind about it?” Now he’s the one yelling.

 

“Yes, actually, it is!” I hate that I’m crying. Hate that I am breaking inside. Hate that I had started to let myself fall for him, depend on him. He reaches out for me when he realizes that I’m about to leave. I shove his hands away from me. “Don’t touch me!”

 

He yanks his hands back like I’ve burned him and now the tears really do start. I slam the bedroom door open and slam the front door shut as I leave, oblivious to any strange looks Darius might throw my way.

 

************************

 

I waste the entire night crying in between fights with nightmares and groan in agony when I wake sometime in the early afternoon to my phone ringing and a headache. My entire being is in pain.

 

“What?” I answer the phone.

 

“Good morning to you too, Kitty,” Jo says. I sit upright, immediately thinking about my fight with Peeta last night. “Glimmer told me you were back in town. I was going to book us an appointment with Cinna so we could catch up, but then he tells me you’ve already got one today. I should be mad at you for not including me or keeping me up to date.”

 

“Jo,” I scramble for an excuse or explanation. I’d forgotten about the appointment I made with Cinna to fix my hair and finish my dress for the navy ball with Peeta. I should cancel it, but Jo doesn’t allow it.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ve fixed your mistake. I’ll see you there in two hours.”

 

She hangs up before it even occurs to me to ask her about Darius or to protest that I was going to cancel my appointment with Cinna. It doesn't matter. Darius has to be lying, right? But why lie to Peeta about it? Just to make himself look better? Darius seemed to have plenty of friends the night of his bachelor party. It makes no sense for him to lie just to keep one, but I'm so confused, and thinking about this isn't helping cure my headache.

 

Dragging myself to my bathroom, I stare at my haggard reflection. I pick up the box of tissues on the counter and hurl it at the mirror with a roar.

 

And then I let myself turn numb.

 

************************

 

When Cinna gives me an odd look as I walk through the door with Jo, I shake my head slightly. Thankfully, he seems to understand my message and doesn’t mention that, just yesterday, we discussed me paying for my appointment solely with my money rather than using the amount the firm has allotted for us. About how I didn’t want Plutarch to know. Jo prattles on with the gossip I’ve missed while I was gone and carries the conversation for about thirty minutes before she finally gets exasperated with me.

 

“You’re a bitch, you know that?” she asks and I just look at her. She scoffs in disgust at my non-reaction. “Are you gonna tell me what crawled up your ass and made you hightail it back to Twelve? You once told me you'd never go back there.”

 

I debate the prudence of telling her the truth and finally decide that I don’t care anymore.

 

“Sailor’s mother died,” I tell her.

 

“Damn. That sucks. They already want you to be mommy when mommy’s still alive. Can’t imagine how bad it’d be once she’s dead,” she snorts at herself and Cinna gives me a worried look in the mirror. He continues working on my hair, though.

 

“He wouldn’t...not like that,” I murmur, not making any sense, and thinking about the things I nearly said to him yesterday, blinded by hurt and rage and lashing out like a wounded animal, inflicting far more damage than I ever intended. Jo reaches out and smacks me on the arm, making me jump in my seat.

 

“I’m done being polite and patient about this shit,” she says and I scowl at her.

 

“You’re never polite. Or patient.”

 

“Exactly. So you better start telling me what the hell is going on with you or I’m gonna stop covering your ass with Plutarch.”

 

I wish I could say that I resist her demands. That I keep my secrets, but I’m so lost and confused that my mouth turns dry as I tell her as much as I dare. Her eyes widen in surprise and narrow in anger at different turns, but she lets me explain. From the bread to our first kiss at the lake to the moment I left Glimmer’s side yesterday and truly started to believe that maybe I really could have both Peeta and my freedom. Some of it I've never told to anyone.

 

“But then Handcuffs was in his apartment and that’s the end of that. I just wish I’d never even tried,” I explain, stopping when her face scrunches in confusion.

 

“How would Handcuffs being in his apartment affect any of this?”

 

“Because he cheated on his fiancée. Remember all that shit I told you about Hurricane’s wife and how I felt after? I can’t deal with anymore married or soon-to-be-married men.”

 

“Uh-huh,” she says, a strange inflection in her voice as I plow forward, my anger renewed in the face of my recitation.

 

“And Peeta has the balls to tell me that Darius claims he never had sex with you and that’s why they’re still friends. I mean, can you believe that shit?”

 

I glare at no one in particular as silence falls in the salon. Even Octavia just sort of halts, mid snip on Jo’s hair. Finally, I look at Jo’s face. Impassive and somehow a little stunned.

 

“I actually do,” Jo says. Once more, I find myself with my jaw on the floor.

 

“What?” I ask in astonishment. “But you said--”

 

“Jesus, Kat, you know how this business is. I had to sell it, even to you. I had no idea you were falling in love with Sailor or that any of this other crap would happen.” I ignore her comment about love.

 

“So you and Handcuffs didn’t…”

 

“We made out on the couch, and it looked like I was about to close the deal, but once we got back in the bedroom, he freaked out. Gave me this adorable speech about how beautiful and sexy and fun I was and how he was certainly tempted but that he didn’t want to start his marriage out by being unfaithful.”

 

“You didn’t--” I sputter and she cuts me off.

 

“No, Kat. I didn’t fuck Handcuffs. We spent the entire night talking about his fiancée and their relationship. How he wasn’t sure he was really in love with her because their parents set them up, but he does love spending time around her. Basically, he was doubting his own reasons for marrying her because Mommy and Daddy actually approved and encouraged them. He got it figured out by the end of the night, though. You know, sometimes this job isn't about just sex.”

 

I gape at her and she rolls her eyes before continuing.

 

“Anyways, by the time the other guys managed to drag themselves out of their hangovers, all the other girls were long gone. The boys high-fived Handcuffs because they figured he had to be some kind of sexual dynamo since I was still there, he tried to protest, and I confirmed to them that he was the best I’d ever had. Because come on, girl. You know dickbags like that would be offended if their buddy didn’t bang the hooker they shelled out good money for.

 

“I already planned to call all the girls to check on them when I noticed the room you and Sailor should’ve used was pristine, and called you first.”

 

“You lied to me,” I protest and she glares at me.

 

“Sometimes you’re really hard to swallow with your righteous indignation and defender of the weak act. But the worst part is that it isn’t even an act for you. And you find someone who not only sees that in you but appreciates it and is actually the same fucking way, and you throw it all away over some moral code you just discovered two days ago? You know what, fuck you. You deserve the heartache. I can’t fucking believe he said ‘no’ when you tried to blow him for taking care of Glimmer. Who the hell does that?!”

 

I stare at the floor and try to sort out what I thought I knew about Peeta and Darius, and this whole mess. What Jo said about it not always being about sex. I guess she’s right. Sometimes, they just want to feel admired or loved or, like in Darius’ case, they just need someone to talk to. Didn’t I survive for a week on nothing but clients who didn’t want sex at all? And maybe, if Peeta hadn’t been out on the seas for a year before showing up at the bachelor party, Darius would’ve talked to him instead of Johanna. Maybe that’s why he was in Peeta’s place last night, because he still needs his friend.

 

Slowly, it dawns on me how horribly I’ve fucked it all up. Peeta still hasn’t betrayed me. It’s more likely that the worry on his face last night that I took as an admission of guilt was him trying to figure out how to handle the awkward situation I put him in by not calling before I showed up on his doorstep. How to save both his friend and me from embarrassment.

 

When I finally manage to look up at Cinna’s reflection behind me in the mirror, he smiles at me. “Shall I go pull out those dresses we talked about?” he asks.

 

“Um, yes!” Jo shouts from her chair. “Get your ass to the ball, Cinderella, and hope to fuck your prince still wants you after this shit. Oh, and start practicing a really convincing apology. Because you suck at those.”

 

************************

 

My heart is pounding hard enough to crack my sternum, but I knock on Peeta’s door and wait. I should’ve called him. I’m not entirely certain he wouldn’t have already left or found another date, but then I decided it’d be better to face him than to call, so I hurried over here as soon as Cinna and Jo pronounced me ball-worthy.

 

When the door opens, I almost run, but I force my feet to plant themselves here. To stop running and face my fears. He’s already dressed, only the last few buttons of his coat left undone. He freezes when he sees me, his eyes taking in the floor-length, navy blue velvet cape that covers my dress. The pearl earrings dangling from my ears, my intricate braid wrapped around the crown of my head, and the barely there makeup that Cinna gave me, to Johanna’s emphatic approval.

 

“You look like you, only better,” Johanna had said with a cackle and a wink.

 

When Peeta finally looks at my eyes again, I can see the confusion, the anger, and a few other emotions fighting for control in his eyes.

 

“I was wrong,” I blurt out and he blinks at me. “About Darius, and so many other things, I just...I didn’t know, but Johanna told me what happened. And I’m sorry.”

 

“Apology accepted,” he says, his voice cold as ice. I can feel him slipping away from me and so I take a gamble on the hurt I see flickering in his eyes being as powerful as the hurt I feel at the thought of losing him. I take a step towards him. He steps back, and he doesn’t slam the door in my face.

 

“I should’ve believed you,” I whisper and he shakes his head. 

 

“You had no proof or reason to, other than maybe the trust I thought we had. And that’s the problem, Katniss. You were just looking for a reason to leave or push me out again, weren’t you? The whole time. Why did you even -- I just don’t know what to think of you now.”

 

“I know,” I tell him and clutch my small beaded purse to my chest. I swallow and repeat the words he whispered to me the other night in my head for courage. Those feelings must still be inside him somewhere. No one could make that vanish overnight. No one. Not even me. 

 

“I know I should’ve trusted you. You’ve never once lied to me. I was just so angry, and I didn’t stop to think… I know that I don’t deserve another chance, but if you can find a way, I…” 

 

I wish he’d give me some sign that I might stand a chance at forgiveness. I search my mind for anything to convince him and finally know what I have to do. It won’t be easy for me to say, or for him to hear. But if he’s going to be dodging punches, then he needs to know what we’re fighting against. I start simple and move towards the complicated.

 

“When I left Twelve, I went to Seven first. Found a job. And lost it. Before I knew what was happening, I was right back where I started. Only it was so much worse than in Twelve.” Peeta sucks in a sharp breath and I forge ahead before I can change my mind about telling him these things. 

 

“Jo found me there, got me out of being arrested, brought me here, fed me, dressed me up, launched me as an escort in Plutarch’s firm, and for the first time in years, I didn’t have to worry about money or starving. And then I ran into someone I knew from Twelve. Gale Hawthorne. And... he wanted me.” I take a deep breath because I don’t know if Peeta knows this name.

 

“That’s not surprising,” he says during my pause, but when I look up at him, expecting disgust, his gaze has warmed fractionally. He nods once, encouraging me to continue. 

 

Once I start again, the words pour from my mouth. I tell him that Gale became a regular, someone I depended upon to keep money flowing into my account. About the apartment offer. And how it came a few days before Peeta returned home. How I thought I could use Gale’s offer as a stepping stone to leave the firm. I tell him about the constant fear of getting trapped in a never ending cycle of leaving and winding right back at the start. Around and around, with no real chance of escape. The utter terror of being dependent on someone who might abandon me on a whim. But then Glimmer’s assault and my time with  _ him _ , with Peeta...and Madge. I finish with my turning down both Madge’s and Gale’s offers and why I did it, flinching at the sudden brush of Peeta’s palms on my cheeks.

 

When our eyes meet, I nearly cry. He looks upset, but he rests his forehead on mine and I order my eyes not to ruin Cinna’s careful work.

 

“That’s why you were so angry about Darius,” he whispers. I nod and he exhales, a sound of relief.

 

“You’re not mad about Gale?” I ask quietly.

 

“I can’t promise that I won’t punch him if I ever see him again,” Peeta says, and I can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up from my chest. “And while I wish you’d told me sooner, I think I know why you didn’t.”

 

“I don’t know how to be with someone, especially not someone like you,” I murmur. “You’re not naive or stupid, Peeta. You’re kind, and generous, and forgiving, and you see beauty where others can’t. Even in me, even when I don’t believe it’s there. And you’re the only man I’ve ever kissed.”

 

Peeta sucks in a sharp breath at my confession. He shakes his head slightly to deny it. 

 

“I got all dressed up, just in case you didn’t kick me out before I could apologize. Can I still be your date tonight?” I ask hopefully. I drop my clutch into one of the cape’s massive pockets and peel off my gloves, depositing them in the other. Then I button the last few fastenings on his coat, and he lets me. He has to tilt his chin up so I can secure the high collar around his throat. When I'm done, he leans forward to kiss my cheek.

 

“Always,” he whispers, and the single word fills me with hope. I wait while he puts on his overcoat, scarf, and gloves. He tucks his wheel cap beneath one arm and offers me the other. I bite my lip to keep from smiling like an idiot and take it, feeling more like Cinderella by the minute.

 

************************

 

People stare at us on the bus. Some of the looks are curious, others openly admiring. Peeta is very dashing in his uniform, after all. I can understand them, since I can’t stop staring at him either. He gives me a quick run down on odd navy traditions and etiquette so I know what to expect. The closer we get to the mayor’s mansion, the more nervous I get. Any number of things could go wrong.

 

But when the bus halts at our stop, Peeta gets off first then reaches back up, offering his hand to help me down the bus stairs. And I swear I hear an old woman on the bus sigh just before the door shuts behind me. 

 

It’s a short walk to the mansion, and the sidewalks are completely free of snow and ice, but any number of attendees join us in a line to enter. Cars waiting for valet service clog the street we traverse. We bypass the driveway where limousines and private cars pause to discharge their wealthier passengers. A security sweep is included with the coat check, and I take a moment longer than I should after handing over my cloak to run my hands over the billowing silver gauze of my skirt.

 

Cinna outdid himself. Every now and then through the years I’ve known him, he would mention his interest in starting a fashion line, while he buffed my nails. When I went to him yesterday for help, I was expecting a recommendation on where to shop. Instead, he’d pulled out a rack of partially finished gowns. I tried on a dozen and finally narrowed it down to either a yellow satin column that made me think of candlelight, and this one. Narrow straps, a slight v in the front, and an enormous one in the back. A skirt of layered shades of silver. Iridescent. Like a rain cloud. Or a snow storm.

 

With a deep breath for courage, I turn and find Peeta watching me with awe. He smiles and once more offers his arm to me, leaning down to speak in my ear over the din of the crowd.

 

“You make me weak in the knees,” he whispers.

 

“Just don’t fall over,” I say. “White pants and all.”

 

I nod towards his pristine, creased white trousers and he laughs.

 

“I’ll try to remember that,” he says.

 

Peeta steers us easily through the crowd, greeting a few people and making brief introductions. I told him on the bus that I didn’t mind him giving them my real first name if we withheld my last name. In a way, I feel like I’m reclaiming it tonight. Not a whore, but a stubborn girl from Twelve who likes to read, can pack a great snowball and misses climbing trees in spring, hopefully works as a nanny to six children who need her, won’t take anyone’s shit, and cares about her sailor.

 

Much like in the Panem Arms, I am distracted by the wealth of the mayor’s mansion. Paintings line the foyer wall. A bar has been set up on one side and people linger there, sipping fizzing concoctions or beer from brown bottles. In one corner, a woman in a tuxedo plays a grand piano, her tails sweeping the floor behind the bench. It’s all a little overwhelming and I wonder who funds all this.

 

“Ensign Mellark! Over here, sir!” someone shouts, catching Peeta’s attention. He switches directions, steering us towards the end of the bar and a group of young men and women dressed in creased and pressed black uniforms. All I can think is  _ buttons,  _ and  _ that collar _ . Clearly, the navy still holds to all sorts of traditions, to include those ridiculous uniforms that look like the guy on those snack boxes -- cracker jacks.

 

Peeta knows them all by name and asks specific questions about their lives. They call him “Sir,” and greet me with smiles and warm murmurs of “Ma’am.” And although they all seem to like Peeta, none of them asks him about his life. And Peeta declines their offer to buy him a beer.

 

“You sure, Ensign?” the sailor who initially offered the drink asks. “Come on, sir. One beer. Without you, my ass would be at the bottom of the fucking ocean right now.”

 

“Dude, watch your mouth. There’s a lady here,” his buddy scowls and elbows the first sailor in the ribs before gesturing towards me. I’m really not sure how to respond to this, but one of the other sailors saves me.

 

“You swear in front of us all the time, Watson,” she says, pointing to herself and the girl standing next to her, who has to be her sister if not her twin.

 

“Watch out, man. Leeg One’s gonna start a swear jar if you’re not careful.”

 

“She’d be broke in a day,” someone else chimes in, and even Leeg One laughs at this. 

 

“Cover my swearing fees with Leeg here for a week if she institutes the swear jar and we’ll call it even, alright Humphreys?” Peeta says and the sailor nods. One of them mutters that that’s a cheap payment. Humphrey’s won't be paying more than a couple bucks, he grumbles.

 

Peeta ignores the comment and wishes them a good evening -- just not  _ too _ good -- to which they laugh, and then he excuses us while the sailors continue to joke good naturedly. 

 

“How’d you keep him from ending up at the bottom of the ocean?” I ask. I want to know more about Peeta’s life. The days he spent out at sea. All of it.

 

“Life lines along the deck snapped during a nor’easter,” he explains. “It wasn’t just me that kept him from going overboard. It was a group effort.”

 

“Uh-huh,” I say. His cheeks are turning red and he can’t quite meet my eyes. Somehow, I don’t think he’s telling me the entire story.

 

Peeta finds a server and accepts two glasses of champagne for us. Other people stop to talk with Peeta for a minute or two. Some to discuss work related issues, others to offer their condolences on the passing of his mother. For the most part they speak to him with evident respect, even the ones Peeta himself addresses as “Sir” or “Ma’am”, their shoulders bearing more gold stripes than his. 

 

But there are a few that make the hairs on my neck stand on end, the tensing of Peeta’s arm beneath my hand a warning that he’s not comfortable around them either, despite the banter or seemingly easy way they converse. I notice that when he introduces me to these people, he sticks to just my name. No additional information that might lead to further conversation.

 

“What’s that look for?” he asks when he catches me staring at him.

 

“Nothing,” I say. “I just haven’t ever seen you like this before.”

 

“Well I gotta keep some kind of mystery about me or else you’d get bored with me,” he teases with a smile. 

 

“Not a chance,” I shake my head and squeeze his arm as we work our way closer to the massive doors that we’re told will lead to the dining room.

 

I even spot Cato across the room at one point, and although I know he sees Peeta, eyes narrowing and lips curling in a snarl, he remains right where he is, an older man in a suit talking to him with forceful gestures and an angry expression. I can’t help feeling smug that perhaps Cato’s finally receiving his just dues.

 

“Ah, the lovely Miss Everdeen.” 

 

I smile, happy to see a friendly face in the sea of unfamiliar ones as Chaff approaches us, the left sleeve of his uniform pinned in place over his stump. He bows to me and grins at Peeta. 

 

“Careful, Ensign. I may steal her for a dance later.”

 

“Only if you’re a complete gentleman. Otherwise there’s nothing I can do to protect you from her right hook,” Peeta says with a smile directed at me. Then he grins at Chaff, who looks wary for a second, and I don’t understand why until Peeta keeps talking. “I've been thinking ...you should consider applying for officer training, Chief. Then one day we can call you Captain Hook,” Peeta jokes and Chaff laughs out loud.

 

They talk for a few more minutes before Chaff bows to me once more and then leaves us. Peeta stares thoughtfully into his glass, and I know he’s thinking about the day Chaff lost his arm. Maybe even the young sailor who almost went overboard. Were there others whose lives he held himself responsible for out there? It seems a terrible burden to place on the shoulders of someone who’s only twenty-three, the weight of those lives heavier by far than the gold epaulets he wears. I gently nudge him with my elbow and he smiles at me, the expression a little weak with his lips still pressed together.

 

“He was fitted for a prosthesis yesterday. The thing looks like a hook more than a hand,” he explains about Chaff.

 

A gong chimes and a few people shout in approval as the doors open, admitting us into the dining room. I gasp at the opulence and sheer size of the place, the many sparkling chandeliers, rows of gilded columns, and the intricately patterned parquet flooring. Up near the front, a head table stretches the length of the dining room, a podium in the middle. Flowers bedeck the surface. Black and gold bunting swoop along the pristine white table cloth. There’s a section cleared immediately in front of the head table and I wonder if there will be dancing later. A string ensemble seated in the corner, tuning their instruments, suggests that there will be. A few hundred round tables fill the rest of the enormous space, each decorated with a low floral arrangement. The place smells heavenly.

 

While I’m ogling the surroundings, Peeta leads us to a table off to the right side, near the back. Peeta holds out a chair for me, and I set my glass down next to the place card reading  _ Guest for ENS P. Mellark. _

 

“Did you have a backup date lined up just in case?” I tease as I take the seat.

 

“No,” he says. “I’m on good terms with the poor guy responsible for the seating arrangements. I had to cash in a few favors to get him to add a guest for me at the last minute, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want your name on the table.”

 

Then he stands behind his own chair and waits as others file into the room. Before long, another couple approaches our table, checking name cards. The man, another officer, pulls out his wife’s chair and she sits, patting her hair before smiling at me.

 

“Patricia Mitchell,” she says. “And you are?”

 

The introductions feel a little stilted and formal and I worry we’ll be stuck at a table with a bunch of people Peeta doesn't know when someone shouts his name boisterously.

 

His face lights up with his smile and he steps away to greet the newcomer. I twist in my seat as a man and a red-haired woman, both in uniform and roughly our age, take turns embracing Peeta, slapping him enthusiastically on the back. Their ranks on their shoulders match Peeta’s, and I wonder if here, finally, are a few of the friends he sometimes speaks of. Fellow Academy grads and officers.

 

“When’d you two get back in port?” Peeta asks warmly as the woman embraces him. 

 

“Three days ago, man. Only late by a week or so. We had to ride out this gnarly typhoon in the South Sea. But it’s all good. Lav here hasn’t let me leave the bedroom since we got in except to get food,” the man says with a grin as the girl releases Peeta. She’s petite and thin as a rail, but the man beside her jumps back away from her with a grunt when her elbow finds his gut. I bite back a chuckle. He’s tall and lean, with close shaved dark hair and bright blue eyes.

 

“Glad to see the romance is still going strong,” Peeta says.

 

“Ignore him. He’s turned into an asshole as a hobby while we were out there. And he was puking the whole storm. How’ve you been?”

 

“It’s been a hectic few weeks,” Peeta says and then turns to me, holding out a hand to invite me into the conversation. Slowly, I stand, careful not to trip over my dress. I get the sense that this couple are some of Peeta’s real friends. They share a look between them before the girl smiles at me and introduces them both.

 

“I’m Lavinia and this jerk is Arturo. Let me know if he bugs you. I’ll deal with him.”

 

“Don’t prejudice her against me before I even know her name, Lav.” She rolls her eyes and smiles at me like we’re old friends, sharing some sort of secret girl talk.

 

“This is Katniss. She’s a friend of mine from home,” Peeta tells them. We shake hands and exchange pleasantries.

 

“Home? So you’ve been back to Twelve while we were stuck in a typhoon?” Arturo asks.

 

“Remind me to tell you about it later,” Peeta says and they must know something of his past based on the looks they share. Lavinia then changes the subject, tapping Peeta’s shoulder a few times.

 

“Hey, how’s the shoulder? Did you think of anything you wanted to add or are we still calling it done?” she asks. Her question confuses me as she turns to me with wide violet eyes and an eager smile. “Have you seen it?”

 

“Whoa, Lav, that’s a personal question,” Arturo says and he takes a gulp of his beer. “We just met her five seconds ago.”

 

“And five seconds ago, you told her we locked ourselves in our room for a three day orgy,” Lavinia complains.

 

“I never said anything about an orgy, that’s all on you,” Arturo says.

 

“All I’m doing is trying to make a name for myself so if this navy thing doesn’t pan out, I’ve got something to fall back onto,” Lavinia insists with a pointed glare at Arturo. “So excuse me for bragging about some of my best work to a potential customer.”

 

_ Work. _ The pieces fall into place with this one word.

 

“You’re a tattoo artist,” I say and she nods excitedly, the smile back on her face.

 

“I started working in my mom’s shop when I was fourteen and learned the trade. When I went to the Academy, I took all of it with me because her equipment was all I had left of her. As soon as some of the guys found out, they started pestering me, so I got an official license and opened for business. Peeta’s ink took us almost two years to finish what with our crazy schedules, and even though the design technically isn’t mine, it’s still some of my best work so far.”

 

“It is some pretty rad ink,” Arturo says, placing his hand on Lavinia’s back and leaning close, clearly trying to get back in her good graces. She grins at him.

 

“It’s one of my favorites, but Arturo’s here is a close second,” she says and Arturo’s face shifts immediately into panic mode.

 

“What? She doesn’t need to know about that, Lav,” he begs, but Peeta’s laughing and now I’m curious.

 

“So what’s Arturo’s tattoo?” I ask and he groans.

 

“Well our dear sweet Arturo here used to have purple hair. He wore it short in the back with these really long bangs that fell in front of his eyes because he thought it made him look both punk and deep. But the navy doesn’t like long or unnaturally colored hair so he had to shave it all off and stop dying it. Our second year as midshipmen at the Academy--”

 

“It was our first year!” Arturo protests.

 

“It was our second year,” Peeta whispers from behind his glass and I laugh as Arturo complains that his friends are a bunch of lying, disloyal--

 

“Anyway! One of the upperclassmen snuck in some rum and Arturo got drunk and weepy and asked me to give him a tattoo of his profile with his old hairdo for him because he missed it,” Lavinia continues.

 

“And you did it?” I ask as Arturo throws up his hands and turns his back on us, his cheeks flushed.

 

“I don’t ask questions. They pay me, I ink,” Lavinia says.

 

“Just spare me some dignity and don’t tell her where it is,” Arturo rejoins us and Lavinia smiles.

 

“Sure, sweetheart,” she says and Arturo sighs in relief as I look at Peeta and he mouths the words to me.

 

_ It’s on his ass. _

 

I snort and cover my mouth to control my laughter. Arturo looks like he’s about to start an argument with Peeta when the gong rings again, forcing us to drop the subject.

 

What remains of the crowd scurries to their tables. Lavinia sits on the other side of Peeta, the gentlemen remain standing, and I glance around at all the strange faces that joined our table while Peeta greeted his friends. All but the two seats on my right are taken when a tall, copper haired man in a black tuxedo pulls out one of the empty chairs, smiling adoringly at a lovely brunette in a navy uniform. She gazes up at him as she sits, her green eyes glowing in obvious affection. He returns the look for just a second before he glances up at me. I have to stop myself from gasping. He’s stunning. Everything handsome exists in his face, and especially in his mesmerizing sea green eyes. He grins at me, a look that tells me he knows exactly how attractive he is, and then he looks up at Peeta.

 

“Peeta, glad to see you here,” he says before he winks at me. I stiffen, but Peeta doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“Also good to see you, Finnick,” Peeta says cheerfully, nodding first to the man and then the seated woman in uniform. “Commander Cresta. How’s Nicky doing?”

 

“Great. Finally cut that molar that’s been driving us all crazy. Who’s your friend?” Finnick responds.

 

“Katniss,” I speak up for myself this time, holding my hand out to Finnick to shake.

 

“Katniss,” he repeats as he bows over my hand. “What a lovely name.”

 

Dread shivers through me as he releases my hand. I don’t recognize him. His is not a face you forget. Ever. But Peeta’s palm lands on my back, reminding me that I am not alone in this. He quickly introduces Commander Annie Cresta, whom he serves under, and her husband, the devastatingly handsome, and yet somehow creepy, Finnick Cresta. 

 

Trumpets blare, cutting the conversation off and reminding me of something Peeta warned me about. 

 

I stand once more, as do all the occupants of the room as a line of admirals, dignitaries, and their dates file into the room and stand behind the seats at the head table. We begin with a round of toasts and Peeta gives me a look that says  _ What did I warn you about? _ I smile and try not to giggle in the midst of the mayor honoring the distinguished guests and toasting to Panem’s continued prosperity in an uncertain world.

 

Once they’re seated, the rest of us follow suit. Almost immediately, dinner is served. The meal is beyond reproach, and I lean over at one point to tell Peeta that he was right about the food and it makes the heels I had to wear and even the small talk completely worth it. Peeta laughs and kisses me softly right behind my ear. 

 

“Now I know how to bribe you,” he whispers.

 

“Darn,” I whisper back. “And here I was hoping to keep my weaknesses a secret from you.”

 

When Peeta sits back in his chair to continue eating, a wide smile on his face, I feel eyes watching me and look back over at Finnick. There’s a speculative gleam in his eyes.

 

I don’t like him.

 

Conversation skips around the table, and it’s difficult to be pessimistic with Peeta in his element. Within minutes, he and Arturo have the entire group involved and laughing like they’re all friends, even though some of them only just met minutes ago.

 

“Katniss, dear, what is that you do?” Patricia asks me after she’s finished answering Arturo’s fascinated questions about her job as a judge. I’ve been fairly quiet and I’m guessing she’s just trying to draw me into the conversation a little more, to make me feel more included. It’s sweet, but not necessary. And I have no clue how to answer in this crowd, but Peeta gets me started.

 

“She’s actually between careers right now,” he says and grins at one of the women across the table. “You remember how rough that can be, right Lieutenant Jackson?”

 

“God don’t remind me. And that was just switching from a mine sweeper to tactics. You’d think I’d committed treason or something,” she says with an exasperated smile.

 

“What are you hoping to do?” Finnick asks me directly, his mouth turning up in a smile that’s almost closer to a leer. Ugh. I don’t know what Annie sees in him. Does she fall for that awful flirting?

 

“I just interviewed for a job as a nanny yesterday. For a family of six kids,” I tell the table. “Not nearly as exciting as plotting treason. Sorry.”

 

A few of them chuckle and one of the men across the way comments that caring for six kids could definitely be a whole helluva lot more exciting than treason. Then the conversation moves on, but Peeta leans over to whisper to me.

 

“I didn’t get a chance to ask you how that went,” he says. I quickly fill him in on the high points, warmed by his optimism.

 

“I don’t see how they won’t love you. You’ll make an incredible nanny,” he tells me when I’ve finished.

 

The meal continues, one course at a time. A spicy lobster bisque that explodes on the palate. A crisp winter greens salad. Thick, crusty bread that melts on the tongue. Then the main course. Through it all, I am left wondering about this Finnick person I’m rubbing elbows with.

 

“You should try the orange sauce on the quail. Adds a certain sweetness to it that’s difficult to find these days,” he whispers in a low voice at one point. I cut my eyes towards Annie before scowling at him. What sort of ass is he to flirt with me in front of both Peeta and his own wife?

 

I smile, the expression tight lipped and forced. “And what if I prefer my meats a little more gamey?”

 

Finnick chuckles, glancing up at Peeta on the other side of me. “I would find that difficult to believe.”

 

He leans back away from me and I hold myself together. Maybe I’m all wrong. Maybe he’s not flirting with me. It feels like it, though, so I grasp Peeta’s hand beside me on top of the table and hold tight. He turns to smile at me and squeezes my hand. Then he answers a question Annie poses to him.

 

I fight back bile as I listen to Peeta and Annie talk. They’re close, I can tell. A form of mutual regard and professional respect I imagine flourished out on the seas. I would feel jealous if she didn’t keep giving Finnick undeserved adoring looks. The strange thing is that he returns them so convincingly, never once letting go of her hand on top of the table. I make a mental note to ask Peeta later how much he knows about Finnick. I don’t think he’s trustworthy.

 

After dinner, there is more pageantry. The speeches are dull. A bunch of self-congratulatory garbage and bad jokes. I tolerate it easily though, since Peeta holds my hand under the table the entire time. When the speeches are done, and the dishes cleared, the string ensemble begins to play a soft waltz. Several people take to the dance floor, but Annie stands with a sigh.

 

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Peeta, but Captain Lyme is waving at me from across the room. Let’s get the business over with and then you can dance with Katniss the rest of the night.”

 

They excuse themselves, Peeta with a kiss on my cheek and a few words.

 

“I’ll try not to take too long.”

 

“I can handle this,” I say with a courage I don’t feel. He smiles at me, blue eyes sparkling in the light from the chandeliers.

 

“I know you can. I just don’t want to spend any more time away from you than I have to.”

 

Warmth flows through me, and I find myself talking to Lavinia and Arturo in Peeta’s absence. Finnick has thankfully also disappeared, claiming that he’s calling to check on their babysitter. The champagne has helped, although I restrict myself to only one more glass. Before long, I’m laughing over another story Arturo is telling about their days at the Academy and starting to believe that maybe this won’t be such a disaster. There’s this strange camaraderie that seems to guide Lavinia and Arturo to include me, to welcome me without question, as though my being here with Peeta automatically stamps me with a form of respectability I’ve never had before.

 

But of course, this doesn’t last.

 

Two tables away, I spot a familiar face. There is no mistaking the sharp high cheekbones, the perfectly slicked black hair and the cold gaze of Antonius Tiber as he bends over and talks to someone who remains seated at the table. Or as Johanna and I know him, Drill Bit.

 

Everything inside of me twists painfully and turns cold. His shoulders are covered in gold and I’ve already figured out, the more gold on the shoulders, the higher the rank. My throat constricts as I try not to start screaming. His gaze sweeps over our table as he stands to move on, passing right by me. In that instant, though, I am certain that he will recognize me. He will recognize me and I will embarrass Peeta. Maybe ruin everything for him.

 

With a hasty excuse, I stand and leave the table, slipping between others and trying to put as much space between me and Drill Bit as possible. I duck back outside the dining room, crashing against someone’s shoulder and mumbling an apology. But I keep going and blindly search for a place to hide until I can figure out what to do.

 

I duck down a deserted hallway and into an alcove where I hyperventilate and try to keep my hands from shaking uncontrollably. Pressing them flat against my stomach in a pointless attempt to control the tremors and the nausea. I should’ve known. I should’ve known that I’d eventually run into one of my clients here or somewhere else. My head spins. I am dizzy from riding this merry-go-round of hoping for better only to find that I am wrong. So wrong. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I  _ can’t _ .

 

I can feel the memory of Drill Bit’s hands on me, one on my neck as he held me down on his bed, the other cutting into the skin of my hip. I can hear the sounds of him pounding into me with no regard for my body or me. The memory threatens to overshadow everything wonderful that has happened tonight. All these people who’ve spoken to Peeta with respect, friendship, and admiration tonight will turn on him because of me. 

 

“I see you found the hottest spot at the party,” a smooth voice intrudes on my thoughts and I jump, turning to face the speaker. Finnick smirks at me and nods, almost to himself, as I try to school my expression into one of indifference. “So which one was it? Admiral Rear or Jackhammer?”

 

“Excuse me?” I ask breathlessly, frantically trying to get myself under control and unable to do it with an audience.

 

“Now I’m just insulted. Jo doesn’t even use my best nicknames anymore? Admiral Rear instead of Rear Admiral? Because he prefers -- never mind,” he scoffs and then points to the bench on the wall opposite me. “Is this seat taken?”

 

“I -- no, it isn’t,” I say, completely confused as Finnick sits on the bench and pulls a cube out of his pocket. He tosses it to me and I catch it on reflex.

 

“Don’t go to pieces, Katniss. You’re doing amazingly well out there. And I can tell you from experience, that if you let yourself fall apart now, it’ll take ten times longer to get back to this point.”

 

I stare down at the cube, each side has nine smaller squares of six different colors, but there’s no discernible pattern. The sections twist under the slight pressure of my hands and I glance back up at Finnick.

 

“Keeps the hands and the mind busy. Go on. Try to get all the squares of the same color on one side.”

 

While I have no idea why Finnick is suddenly being nice to me, I decide to play along, hoping maybe he’ll reveal himself and his motives if I play his game. More flies with sugar, right? With an experimental twist, I spin part of the cube and an entire row of squares shifts to the adjacent side of the cube. I tilt it and focus on it because focusing on this is better than on my near encounter with a former client. I try a few more twists but quickly become frustrated and toss it back to Finnick.

 

“This is impossible,” I complain. He chuckles but examines it for a moment. Then he starts twisting. I watch, fascinated for a few minutes until he holds it up for my inspection. Each side a uniform color.

 

“Not impossible. Just not easy.” Then he pats the bench beside him and smiles. Oddly enough, this one doesn’t make my skin crawl. I flop down next to him as he scrambles the cube back up and hands it to me. I start twisting again, concentrating on what I’m doing but I still manage to ask him questions.

 

“Who’s Jo?” I ask, deciding to play dumb for a moment because I still don’t trust him.

 

“Nice try, Katniss. You know, it was a bit of a shock for me, having her call me after five years of complete silence. You must be pretty important to her. She’s still about as cuddly as a porcupine, though, so it’s nice to know some things don’t change.”

 

I snort at the description of Jo and ask him how he knows her.

 

“You think Plutarch only hires women?” he asks quietly as he points out a possible move on the cube. I bat his hands away as my stomach drops and something Jo said to me weeks ago returns. About someone originally from Four who left the business. Got married. Has a kid now.

 

My hands freeze and I look up at him. There’s a sadness in his eyes, hiding behind the flirtatious laughter I saw at dinner. The awful flirting now makes sense. I should’ve recognized it right away, since I’ve employed many of the same tactics myself. It was designed not to make me uncomfortable, but as a banner to let me know he’s from the same world as me. Finnick was a male prostitute.

 

“So you can imagine my shock when she calls me to ask for a favor,” he continues. “Says she’s got a girl trying to leave who might be around a blonde sailor quite a bit. Asks me to keep an eye out for a Katniss or Katherine or any variation of those names. To look after her. And lucky for us, the sailor in question is my wife’s right hand out at sea. Works out nicely, don’t you think?” 

 

He winks at me again. Words stick in my throat and Finnick takes the cube back.

 

“We’ll get you one of your own,” he says, tucking it into his pocket, and I finally find my voice.

 

“Does Annie know?” I ask, the worry evident in my voice.

 

“About you? Yes. I told her what Jo asked of me right after she called. Keep in mind, though, that Annie also knows all about me, Jo, Plutarch, some of the others. So if you’re worried about her judging you or Peeta...don’t.”

 

“How’d you wind up with a commander in the navy?” I ask. He’s far more visible with her than I am with Peeta. The rank alone assures that.

 

“I met her at her sister’s wedding when she was still a lieutenant. One of her cousin’s had hired me to make an ex-boyfriend jealous. It worked, they left the wedding together. And I got to spend the night talking to Annie instead. Best job I ever had.”

 

“You left it all behind for her?” I ask quietly.

 

“I already wanted to leave,” he explains. “She crept up on me in the process.”

 

“Did she help you get out?” I ask quietly and Finnick nods.

 

“And she’s helped me deal with it every day since. Every night that I fight familiar faces I’d rather never see again or bad memories, she’s there to help me find my way through. And I do the same for her with whatever she brings home with her from the seas.” 

 

I scrunch my face up as I think about this, about the level of trust that would have to exist between Annie and Finnick, and I envy them that certainty. But then, Peeta’s never given me a reason  _ not _ to trust him, and only a thousand reasons why I can. I keep waiting for him to turn on me, and yet he hasn’t. Even when I was trying to push him away, Peeta accepted that there was a reason and was willing to wait, steady and true, for me to let him in. I shift uncomfortably on the bench. Finnick stands and straightens his bow tie. Then he holds his hand out to me. 

 

“Come on,” he says.

 

“Where are we going?” I ask.

 

“Well I’d like to spend some time with my wife. And you should go dance. Nothing spells freedom in the face of someone who could ruin you better than dancing with the person you love.”

 

“I don’t,” I shake my head, trying to deny it.

 

“Maybe you don’t know exactly how yet, maybe you haven't allowed yourself to even think it’s possible, but anyone looking at you two can see how much you care for one another. You’d be surprised how powerful that can be.”

 

Gathering my skirt in my fists, I ignore his hand and stand on my own. Finnick grins and motions for me to lead the way. We slowly make our way back through the ballroom. I can feel sweat beading up on my skin as my heart thunders in protest and my brain tries to order a retreat.

 

We reach our table without incident and Peeta greets me with a smile. Annie asks Finnick if he got lost and he cracks a joke about the sea of humanity and terrible phone reception with all the gilded decor in the place. I swallow and try to seem casual about it.

 

“Peeta, will you dance with me?” I ask.

 

“Yeah, of course,” he says excitedly, taking my hand and leading me towards the dance floor. As we get closer and the tables are set further apart, he rests his hand on my lower back, the touch soothing. We melt into the crowd on the floor and fall into the cadence. 

 

“You remember,” I say quietly after a few minutes of Peeta guiding us smoothly through the throng of dancers. He doesn’t even need to whisper the count to himself and he doesn’t step on my toes.

 

“How could I forget?” he asks and I shake my head to keep from grinning like an idiot. He must’ve danced with his date at the winter ball in Twelve. Maybe the Academy even had dances like this one. That’s the most likely explanation for his improved dance skills.

 

The music is soft and dreamy. I’m dancing in candlelight and a beautiful dress, warm in Peeta’s embrace. I should be happy. Ecstatic. Floating on air. But I can’t seem to shake my fears, the temporary courage Finnick gave me quickly fading every time we turn and I am presented with a new set of faces to search. I won’t be able to enjoy myself if I keep looking over my shoulder, and Peeta senses that something is wrong.

 

“As much as I want to just enjoy dancing with you, are you going to tell me why you vanished like that? And why you keep looking behind you?” he asks with an uncertain smile. “Finnick didn’t bother you, did he?”

 

“No,” I say. “He was actually helping me.”

 

“Oh,” Peeta says, his arms tensing a little around me. Another turn and I catch a quick glance of Drill Bit...or Jackhammer. It’s a fitting nickname as well...and then we turn again and he’s gone.

 

“Peeta, I don’t want to cause you trouble,” I whisper and he leans down to hear me better.

 

“You’re not,” he says.

 

“But I might,” I insist. I can tell he’s about to argue and that’s no good. I need to get this all out before I lose my nerve. “There’s a man here. He was once a client of mine. It was over a year ago but he’s...Antonius Tiber.”

 

Peeta jumps slightly and I tighten my hold on his shoulder and his hand to keep him from reacting beyond that. And maybe I’m terrified that now that he’s finally face to face with the realities of loving me -- even if I manage to slip free of Plutarch’s grasp and never take another client -- Peeta will come to the inescapable conclusion that he wants nothing to do with me.

 

“It probably won’t be the last time this happens,” I whisper. Now it’s his turn to tighten his hold, his arm drawing me closer. His blue eyes holding my gaze as they darken with determination.

 

“Then we need some kind of signal for you to let me know. You don’t have to point them out to me unless you want to. Just so I know that there could be trouble. Or that you need to leave for a minute. However you think we should handle this, just let me know.”

 

My heart swells at his words. At the steady way he looks at me while somehow never losing our step in the dance. I glance around us at all the faces and think about how Peeta navigated us through the socialization earlier tonight. The hundred different faces he presented to others, depending on whom he was speaking with. So effortlessly, even though it sometimes felt as though we were surrounded by fins and unable to tell if they were a porpoise or sharks. A monster-filled sea and a carefully laid political dance. One rogue wave could upset the entire thing. And yet, he never wavered once. Trusted me to do the same. It’s not that different from the world I’ve been navigating for years.

 

“Okay,” I say.

 

“Okay?”

 

“We can figure it out together, later,” I whisper, my heart and feet suddenly much lighter. 

 

All this time, I thought I was alone. I realize now just how many people are rooting for me, looking out for me. Supporting me. Finnick with his encouraging words a few minutes ago. I catch a glimpse of him dancing with Annie and she smiles warmly at me and somehow I know she’s an ally, too. Then there’s Johanna’s phone call to someone she was never supposed to speak to again. Someone who was once her friend the way I am now. Cecilia with her tireless efforts to find me hope. Even Cinna, who worked his magic, dressing me in this raincloud confection of a dress and hugging me before he sent me on my way. I should probably be able to face a former client by myself, but the part of me that isn’t as brave as I would like, is glad that I don’t have to. That Peeta’s with me. 

 

“Right now, I want to dance with you,” I tell him

 

Peeta smiles and I can’t help the giddy laugh that springs free from my lips as he spins me under his arm before pulling me back into the circle of his embrace and we continue. The room and the crowd around us are lost in a swirl of color as he holds me close enough that our noses nearly touch and we can speak in soft tones, for only us to hear. The rest of the world can wait.

 

There’s a break in the dancing when they serve dessert, and Peeta laughs as I steal a bite of his eclair after mine is gone. But he doesn’t protest. Instead, he leans down and kisses my lips. A brief brush of fluttering wings. When he pulls back, he falters for second.

 

“Was that okay?” he asks quietly.

 

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Are you allowed to kiss in public while wearing your uniform?”

 

“Not sure that I care right now,” he whispers back and I hold my hand up between our mouths. His eyes drop to my fingers as energy courses through me, warm and curious, my skin alive with heat, my body awakened.

 

“I want to kiss you without an audience,” I tell him and he smiles against my hand, but he kisses my fingers, nods, and finishes his dessert. Except for the second bite that I steal.

 

Eventually, the crowd begins to thin. When Peeta asks me if I’m ready to leave, I nod. We say our farewells to our table companions, and Finnick gives me a subtle thumbs-up before we leave. 

 

As we approach the dining room doors, I once more spot Drill Bit, surveying the crowds as he sips on champagne. In order to leave, we will have to walk right past him. I stiffen and my nails dig into Peeta’s arm. His only reaction is to lay a hand over mine, and to continue our steady pace. My throat constricts and the sounds of the party dull to a hollow echo in my ears as we approach and Drill Bit’s eyes land on me for an instant. He squints as though his mind flags me as familiar but he can’t quite pinpoint how.

 

“Captain Tiber,” Peeta says smoothly, giving the man a deferential nod as we glide past and I remain rigid as steel in an attempt to not to claw my way free of his hold on me like a rat caught in a trap. But Peeta’s greeting has drawn Drill Bit’s attention away from me and onto himself.

 

“Ensign,” Drill Bit returns the nod and lifts his glass slightly. “I trust you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

 

“Surprisingly, yes,” Peeta says and Drill Bit chuckles but then turns his attention to a squat man in a uniform who taps him on the arm. We keep walking and I reel with relief as Peeta squeezes my hand and I lean into him. Astonished at how, with four perfectly timed words and a carefully chosen tone of ennui, Peeta managed to turn what could have been a catastrophe into ten seconds of nothing. And it means everything to me.

 

When I finally look up at him, he’s searching my face, his own creased with concern. I shake my head and release a breath of relief, relaxing my hand so I’m not clawing him anymore. As we’re slowed by the crowd, I take the chance to stand on my toes and kiss his cheek. I linger there, closing my eyes and begging my heart to stop it’s frantic flight over the indisputable proof that Peeta will not abandon me or change his mind. Not even when our worlds cross paths and threaten us both.

 

And now, it’s my turn to prove that the same holds true for me.

 

As I slowly retreat from the kiss, his eyes hone in on mine. We stand there, staring at one another, oblivious to the people moving around us until someone drops a glass near the bar and loud laughter interrupts. The crowd parts slightly in front of us, and then we are like children, rushing to the coat check. Peeta helps me into mine and I set his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. We hurry into the night and down the street to the bus stop. It’s surprisingly full and we end up standing, holding to the same railing, nearly chest to chest as we talk quietly.

 

“Did you have a good time, for the most part?” he asks. 

 

“I did. But I’m really looking forward to taking these shoes off,” I admit.

 

He looks up at the map of the bus routes above the door for a moment and then back down at me.

 

“I think we need to get off in two stops and switch to the orange line to get you back to your place,” he says and I shake my head. I’ve already made up my mind. I don’t want to spend another night without him beside me if I don’t have to. I know I will eventually, the next time he has to go out on his ship. But not tonight.

 

“I’m not ready to go back to that apartment yet,” I say. Peeta’s hand closes over mine as he searches my face again.

 

“It won’t always be like this. Fancy parties and such. That’s just once a year, maybe. The rest of it is a mundane routine when I’m home and long absences with poor communication when I’m not.”

 

“I’m okay with mundane. I think I might prefer it,” I say, but the look on Peeta’s face suggests that maybe I don’t understand. And suddenly, I wonder if he’s been almost as afraid of letting me into his world as I have been of letting him into mine. Given our history of me pushing him away every time the water gets choppy, I really can’t blame him for feeling that way. While I dislike the idea of months at a time without him, we made a promise to take care of one another when we need it most. I have no intention of breaking that promise.

 

“I just want to spend every possible night of the rest of my life with you,” I whisper and Peeta’s breath hitches. “Will you let me stay with you?”

 

“Always,” he says for the second time tonight. And it has the same fluttering effect on my heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end approaches! As always, a million thank you's to peetabreadgirl for coaching me through this, providing an ear to bounce ideas off of, and for your attention to details while editing.
> 
> Two chapters left, and I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Did I manage to surprise you? How's that emotional rollercoaster ride? A little smoother? Thanks all for your comments, etc on this story! <3 KDNFB


	9. Chapter 9

When we reach his place, I’m not certain what to do. I know that I want to sleep beside him, wake to his annoying alarm and tease him for it. But there’s another want that has spread itself through my blood while we made our way home, demanding to be appeased.

 

Doubts crowd back in as Peeta opens the coat closet and takes my cape, hangs it up. I don’t know if he’ll still want me. Wants a whore to be his first, because even though he claimed to not really care, I know it has to bother him on some level. I settle for something I can deal with and slip off my heels, try to smile as he takes them, too, setting them on the closet floor.

 

He removes his heavy overcoat to hang it up and sets his hat on the shelf, but makes no move to remove the rest of his uniform. If I were with a client, I would flirt and cajole in an attempt to speed things up, but Peeta is not a client. He is something so much different...and more. With him, I want to linger in our nervousness. In this twilight between the before and after. Because if we go where I believe this is headed, it will finally mean something.

 

“I’ll, um, get you something to sleep in,” he offers. It’s close to midnight, and the offer makes sense, so I follow him into his bedroom. He flips on the lamp and I gasp. “Oh, I managed to get a real bed, finally.”

 

While that’s great, what’s caught my interest is the pencil markings on the wall behind the bed, only just visible in the faint light. A sketch of an intricate, abstract swirled pattern. I walk over to stand next to his bed and set my clutch on the small bedside table so I can run a finger along one of the lines.

 

“Are you going to paint this?” I ask with excitement.

 

“Someone did suggest that I should put something on my barren walls,” he says with a smile, standing beside me and offering the same shirt and socks he loaned to me the night before we went to Twelve. “Just haven’t decided on the colors yet.”

 

“You should paint it,” I say, turning to face him and accept the clothes.

 

“I’ll give you some privacy,” he murmurs, turning to leave the room. Only, I don’t want him to go.

 

“Peeta, wait,” I implore. He halts and watches me, waiting for me to make the next move. I’m no good at this. Not really. I have a routine for work, a set of tricks and lines that rarely ever fail me. With Peeta, I want none of that. I want it to be real.

 

He reaches towards me as he retraces his steps to stand in front of me, slowly caressing his fingers over my cheek, tilting my chin up until our mouths hover close enough for me to feel not only his breaths, but the radiated heat of his body near mine. My heart thumps wildly, demanding that I do something. 

 

I toss aside the shirt and socks, slowly bringing my hands to run up over the coarse wool of his uniform coat, the rough ride over brass buttons until I reach his shoulders. I span the breadth of them while our breathing picks up its pace. I let one hand skim down his arm to his hand, the one still hanging at his side, waiting for a sign. And like I did in the shower in Twelve, I show him what I want, guiding his hand around to rest on the bare skin of my lower back so that he pulls me closer to him.

 

His eyes flutter closed but I keep mine open. I don’t want to miss a second of this. The brief wrinkling of his forehead right before he touches his to mine. The way he tugs on his bottom lip with his teeth as he skims his nose over mine. The visceral pull I feel towards him when he does that. And then his lips are on mine, soft and searching.

 

I whimper into his mouth and grip his shoulders, tight enough to make my knuckles ache. I am scared and full of longing. Unsure of what to do next and yet certain that this would’ve happened anyways.

 

His thumbs draw soothing circles on my back and cheek as warmth and need spread through me, insistent and unquenchable. Steady as his pulse beneath my palm when I shift to touch the closest bare skin I can find, right below his jaw. And it’s not enough.

 

I undo the buttons I fastened earlier tonight and then keep going until we’re flinging the coat aside and my hands are tearing at the elaborate necktie hiding beneath.

 

“What purpose does this serve?” I ask, annoyed with the knotted length of silk.

 

“To slow you down and make sure you know what you want,” he says, his tone teasing, but his eyes are serious.

 

“Then it’s pointless,” I whisper and finally get the damn thing off of him. I try to throw it over my shoulder, but it’s so long it gets caught there. I leave it draped over me and return my hands to his shirt to unfasten those buttons. “I know exactly who I want.”

 

Peeta’s lips caress over my neck and ear as I work to undress him. Once I get the dress shirt off of him, he drags the zipper of my dress down my side, slides the straps off my shoulders. I gasp as the chill of the room hits my bare skin. Peeta’s hands push the dress down my hips to pool on the floor. Then he lifts me free of the iridescent cloud of fabric, nuzzling my neck as he sets me on the bed, his necktie contraption still hanging on my shoulder. He kisses his way towards it and then slowly pulls it off of me, the slide of the silk as decadent on my skin as the feel of his lips, before he discards it on the floor.

 

When he stands upright, I follow, sitting up so I can reach him. Our hands collide and then find a way to work together. I unfasten the marigold hued cumberbund and then his pants. He kicks off his shoes and tears his white undershirt up over his head and off his body. I use feet and hands to get his pants down his legs. They join the growing pile of his clothes on the floor. Curling his arm beneath me, Peeta lifts me as we kiss, sliding me up the bed until we’re both stretched out on the surface in nothing but black lace and white cotton undergarments.

 

We hurried to undress and now we take our time. I let my hands roam over him as he does the same to me. I could spend hours just mapping his body with my hands, kissing here and there, savoring his sounds of surprise and delight. Making plenty of my own. Maybe we do spend hours that way. Seemingly superficial touches that reach much deeper than skin.

 

My hands shake with eagerness and yet I am perfectly fine with this pace until Peeta’s mouth latches to my neck and he begins to kiss me in earnest. Then I need more. So much more as heat unfurls in my heart, spreading down to my toes and causing me to bow on the bed. I spear my fingers in what hair I can find on his head. For as long as I can, I savor the heat of his mouth on me, the swell of need building deep inside me. When I can’t stand it a second longer, I wrap my legs around his hips and bend again, rubbing myself against him.

 

“Peeta,” I beg and swivel my hips as he groans, his open mouth sliding over my shoulder and down to my breast. His hips thrust, pushing me into the soft mattress. He moans my name, low and excited, and I know I need to slow us down...or maybe speed us up.

 

I wrangle my thoughts and manage to roll us over so that I’m on top of him. Kissing his chest, I slowly work my way lower. When I tug on his shorts, Peeta eagerly shucks them. He hisses as I grip him and stroke his length. His hands shake as he caresses my shoulders and his body undulates beneath me.

 

“Oh, Katniss,” he moans as his hips buck, and I can tell he’s desperately controlling himself. “Katniss, let me taste you. Let me make you come first. I don’t want it to end this soon.”

 

“It won’t, Peeta,” I soothe. “Trust me?”

 

He nods and I lower my head, licking his length. I tease him as long as I dare then take him in my mouth as he fists the sheets in his hand. As with the first time I did this to him, I watch his eyes the entire time, pushing down on his abs with one hand when he thrusts up into me a little. With a whispered entreaty, Peeta places a hand over mine and grips it tightly, connecting us in yet another way. I love watching his blue eyes haze over with pleasure, watching him lose himself completely in the feelings. Holding nothing back. Open and vulnerable. 

 

He grits his teeth and groans out a warning. His eyes squeeze shut when I don’t stop and he comes in my mouth. I keep sucking and swallowing until he falls motionless on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes as his chest heaves with his heavy breaths.

 

As I slide my mouth off of him, he peeks at me from under his arm. I push myself upright so I’m kneeling and wipe my mouth with the heel of my palm, self-conscious now for some inane reason. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve done this to him. And I don’t plan on it being the last, either.

 

“I think I understand,” he says, his voice husky as he sits up and caresses my face, a slow grin spreading over his lips. “Now I have all the time I need to get you to scream my name and come as many times as I can.”

 

I open my mouth to tell him that wasn’t my intention. I just wanted to make him come once so that when we do make love tonight, he’ll last longer than a few minutes. Because I know Peeta. He’ll be miserable and blame himself if it’s not good for me, too.

 

That argument is lost as he kisses me, though. I can taste his determination on his tongue, feel it in the tender way he caresses my body. Down to between my thighs, spread wide over his. I grip his shoulders and roll into his touch so he can feel how wet I am for him. My panties already soaked from our kisses, our explorations, and even from the thrill of pleasuring him with my mouth.

 

“Fuck,” he mutters against my lips as he passes his fingers over the lacy black fabric. 

 

Sliding his legs up the bed, he rises and moves behind me as I remain in place on my knees, his chest pressed to my back. For a second, I forget that I’m with someone I trust and panic, but he tenderly kisses my shoulder and murmurs that he wants to start by feeling me come on his hand, and his voice brings me back. Then he slips one hand inside my panties and uses the other to caress my navel, up to my breast and then back down. His lips warm my neck and shoulders with kisses. I rest my head back on his shoulder as he strokes over my folds. Gasp when he slips one finger inside me.

 

“Show me what you need,” he whispers, slipping in a second finger and curling them to massage the front of my walls. I rock my hips and I think I squeak as the heel of his palm presses against my clit. But I can’t speak. Even if I could, I wouldn’t know what to tell him. All I can do is grip his thighs behind me and ride his hand and the feelings he causes.

 

“Yes! Right there!” I shout when the feelings coalesce, ready to spring free. He must remember how to push my body because his fingers press harder, his other hand finally ceases it’s careful caresses, cupping my breast for a moment before his fingers pluck at my nipple, striking a chord and unleashing a song. I writhe in his arms and I am lost in the crescendo. 

 

When my walls cease spasming, Peeta gently pulls his fingers from me, the drag of his skin against mine making me shiver, sending pulses of delight down my limbs. He tilts his head and wraps his arm up around me, simultaneously embracing me and sucking his fingers clean. My thoughts leap around as he gently lays me down on my back, his mouth leaving blazing kisses over my skin. I barely move as he slides my panties down my legs, following them with soft kisses. Before I can ask for what I want, his mouth is on me. I scream and grip his hair, my thighs clamping around his head. He falters for a second and looks up at me, eyes bright in surprise.

 

“Don’t stop!” I demand and he resumes thrusting his tongue inside me, drinking my arousal, unable to keep up with it all because his mouth feels so impossibly good, it’s practically pouring out of me. I hold him in place as the world narrows to the soft swirl of his tongue, the warm suction  of his mouth, and the resurging wave of need inside of me.

 

When I'm close, Peeta slowly lifts his own hips off the bed and slips a hand down towards his groin, a movement that catches my attention. I fight through the selfish need for him to keep going so I can come on his tongue and grapple on the nightstand for my clutch, eventually managing to get out one of the condoms I keep in there. The flash of the lamp light on the foil catches Peeta’s eye and he lifts his head. He stares at it and I can see the gravity of the choice in front of us settle in his eyes. I brace myself for his rejection.

 

“Katniss, are you sure?” he asks, and I nod carefully. He pries my legs from around him and slides up my body to whisper my name again. “Katniss.”

 

I pause in tearing open the condom to meet his questioning gaze. I think about telling him that this is for both of our safety. Granted, I was tested a couple weeks ago as part of my monthly check-up and everything came back clean. And I haven’t had a client since, but as much as I want to feel him inside me, and just him, it’s not a risk I can take yet. 

 

As he stares at me, though, I know that’s not what he’s asking about. Reaching out, I caress his face. Cheeks still flushed with his recent release. Blue eyes dark with want, and yet they don’t waver from mine, seeking that last confirmation that what’s happening between us is real and lasting.

 

“I’m not good with words,” I admit. Not like he is. The things he said to me two days ago, at the lake when we were seventeen, even the night of the bachelor party. He has a way with words that makes me feel things so strongly.

 

“Let’s try this, then,” he murmurs, tracing my lips with his finger. I flick my tongue out and taste a faint musk that must be myself on his skin. He shudders but keeps going. “Did I hear you right earlier? When you said I was your first kiss.”

 

“I said you are the  _ only _ person I’ve ever kissed, which would make you my first,” I remind him. He smiles and leans down, hovering his mouth over mine.

 

“Why?” he asks softly. I think of something he once said to me and smile, too.

 

“Because no one else left an impression the way you did,” I tell him, keeping my eyes as unwavering as his. “Peeta, I want you. I want to share this with you, but I’ll understand if you don’t want me as your first.”

 

He gives me an odd look, like he can’t believe I just said that. Then he snatches the condom out of my hand and uses his teeth to tear it open. My hands tremble as I help him roll it on. They’re still shaking as I run my fingers in his short hair while he slowly slides inside me. I force myself to relax, to accept his girth. I bite my lip to keep from crying out at how full I feel, wriggling my hips to get him seated better inside me, to counter the awkward angle.

 

“Ooh,” he moans, dragging the sound out, his head dropping to my shoulder as he breathes heavily. Once our hips are flush, he doesn’t move. I start to worry about him after a minute has passed, his body wracked with the odd shudder.

 

“Peeta?” I ask.

 

“Just a second,” he says in a strained voice. “You feel, god you feel amazing, Katniss. I’m not sure I can -- I have no idea what I’m doing and I want you to come, too.”

 

I push up against him, and he protests the motion of our hips at first, but rolls onto his back when he gets what I’m trying to do. I rise up over him, watching his face as I lift my hands to my hair, slowly unraveling Cinna’s careful styling, giving Peeta a chance to relax. He watches the entire time, his hands skimming up and down my thighs, his cock throbbing inside me. 

 

When the last hairpin has been tossed on the nightstand and my hair shaken free, I brace my hands on his abs and slowly roll my hips over him. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and my mouth drops open with the exquisite feeling. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, living in the moment, in the feel of grinding my clit against him, the pressure of him against my walls. Peeta’s hands caress me wherever he can reach. The heat of his touch lingers on my skin even when he’s moved on, making it feel like he’s touching every last inch of me. I want to see his face, though. To bear witness to every miniscule expression of his. Every bite and tick and quiver of his lips. So I look down at him and whimper when our eyes meet. My gut pulls towards him, a sensual connection forged in our mirrored expressions of wonder.

 

So this is what it feels like with someone you love. Who loves you back. I feel naked and raw and glorious. Renewed and untouched by anyone’s hands but his. The only hands that really matter. This is real purity. 

 

I lose my rhythm and fall back a little, catching myself on his thighs and gasping as his cock touches an undiscovered patch inside of me. Heat blooms in rapid waves as I keep moving. Peeta flattens his hand on my chest, pushing my torso back until I am moaning louder with every thrust over him.

 

“Ah, Katniss,” he says after a few minutes of this. He struggles to sit up and wraps his arms around me. Our hips move together as he sucks one nipple in his mouth. White hot pleasure sears through me and I throw my head back to shout at his ceiling. My hair brushes the backs of my hands and his thighs. His fingers dig into me, his teeth scrape my skin as he moans. It feels so good, I can’t stand it for long and throw myself at him, once more tangling my fingers in his hair and holding his head against my breast. I need him. I need his kisses and tug on his hair to get him to look up at me again.

 

We slow a little as we kiss. A gentle break in the midst of frenzy. And yet, the soft kisses and gentle touches of his hands on my back and over my ass, my own touches on his neck and ears and face and hair, the smooth oscillations of our bodies moving in unison, eventually relight that frenzy. 

 

Rougher thrusts tear our mouths apart. Our eyes meet and don’t stray again. And how does looking in his eyes make it infinitely deeper, more powerful? I don’t know, I don’t know, but I am hypnotized and can’t look away. I don’t want to look away. He’s touching more than my body this way, with each thrust or pitch of motion, we sink deeper into one another somehow. I want him to see it, feel it, hear it,  _ know it _ when he makes me fall apart. I want to see it in his eyes when he follows.

 

“Peeta,” I say, frantically grasping for my release. The bed bounces with our movements, but I can’t care about the squeaking of the bedframe because I am close, so close.

 

“I know,” he gasps. “I can feel you. Fuck, I want you to come on me.”

 

He grips my hips and pulls. Once, twice, again. And I am soaring and shrieking my release. My muscles seize and I am helpless as ecstasy burns through me. But Peeta holds me through it all.

 

“You’re...breathtaking,” he pants as I swallow thickly and try to tell him that I can’t move anymore. I lean sideways, still floating in bliss. Peeta seems to understand, shifting a hand and one knee and flipping us so fast, we don’t even have time to part.

 

He takes a second to settle his hands and knees on the bed. Brushes the hair out of my eyes. I manage to thrust my hips up into him once and nearly lose it right then, my moan fragmented and needy.

 

“Katniss, are you okay?”

 

“Stop talking and move, Peeta,” I demand and he smiles.

 

“Like this?” he asks, lifting his hips to pull out of me and rolling them back into me in imitation of what I just did to him.

 

“Yeeeesss,” I groan, arching my neck because his weight on me won’t let me do much more. 

 

He buries his face in the crook of my neck and groans on repeat as he moves. Lifts his head to kiss me, sucking on my bottom lip, massaging my tongue with his. Returns to my neck and whispers broken fragments like he can’t decide on where he wants his lips or which thought to articulate. His thrusts quicken and I can’t seem to stay still either, the allure of touching every inch of him too great to resist. My legs ride up and down his thighs and hips. My hands skim over his arms and shoulders, his back and his ass. My hips eagerly meet his and I sing my delight to the walls and his ears as I once again find myself poised to fly.

 

“Uh-uh-come-uh-can-you-uh-come-with-me?” he gasps as he lifts his head and I can’t answer because I already am, mouth parted on a silent scream, nails digging into his biceps as I burn through the sky. His hips falter but I can feel his fists clenching in the sheets next to my ribs, his mouth covering mine as his tongue tastes my silent wail, giving it back to me in a stuttered moan.

 

I think I must black out, or fall asleep, because the next thing I am cognizant of is my eyes fluttering open and Peeta groaning into my neck in between incoherent mumbles. I pry my nails from his arms and toy with his hair. Our bodies are damp with sweat and the air is pungent around us. And for the first time in my life, I feel utterly satisfied.

 

With a content sigh, I caress down his back and he shivers.

 

“Are you okay?” I ask him softly and he nods.

 

“I may need a minute. Or twenty,” he says and I laugh, the sound relieved as he manages to lift himself up and gaze at me with satiated happiness. “Do I need to move?”

 

“Not yet,” I say, shaking my head. His legs shift and he snares a blanket at the foot of the bed with with his toe, finally grabbing it with his hand and covering us, trapping our heat and keeping us warm. Bracing himself on his forearms, he caresses my forehead, over my hair as I trace the lines of his tattoo. I don’t want to ruin this moment, but there is something I need to know. “Regrets?”

 

He nudges my nose with his to get me to look at him and I bathe in the warm glow of his gaze on me, smile as I anticipate his answer. 

 

“None,” we say at the same time.

 

As much as I want to stay here forever, eventually we have to move. We drag ourselves from the bed and clean up a little before dressing in pajamas, mine the borrowed clothes I’d tossed aside earlier. When he turns the lamp off, I glance out the window and gasp.

 

It’s snowing. A thick, steady fall of fat white flakes that catch and the lights of the city, shimmering as they drift in front of the window before falling to blanket the ground. I am drawn to the glass and stand staring at the spectacle. Peeta stands behind me, wrapping his arms around me, keeping me warm.

 

“Beautiful,” he whispers, kissing my neck and the stretch of my shoulder left exposed by the shirt that’s too large for me before he rests his chin there and watches the snow. I shift my feet and stare, barely making out the reflected outline of us in the glass. And I agree with him.

 

************************

 

When Peeta’s alarm begins it’s morning torment, I roll over and turn it off. He groans, but hardly moves. I watch him as he struggles to wake. 

 

“Peeta. Wake up, Peeta,” I croon into his ear as an idea and a need takes shape in my heart. Sleeping beside him is such a luxury. I am warm, refreshed, and eager to meet the day. But there’s more than that. It’s him. I do not ever want to lose him again.

 

He shifts and opens one eye to glare at me.

 

“Some sailor you make,” I tease. “One night of passion and you’re down for the count.”

 

“I think last night counts as my daily exercise,” he argues, rolling over and tugging the blanket up over his shoulder.

 

“I can work with that,” I say and wind my arm beneath his to wrap around his body and caress his bare chest. He hums and I take that as an invite to move lower. His body jerks as I slip my hand inside his pants and grip him.

 

“Katniss,” he warns as I stroke him, his cock hardening quickly in my hand. 

 

I kiss his neck and his arm reaches behind him to palm my ass and pull me flush against him as his hips rock into my touch. After a few minutes, he rolls over and pins me to the bed, yanks my panties off before flinging them across the room. I laugh as he pushes my borrowed shirt up to my neck, his mouth feasting first on one breast, then the other. 

 

“Oh,” I gasp when his fingers trace over my folds and part my lips enough for him to slide one finger inside me. He withdraws it slowly, sucking on one nipple at the same time. A slow return with a soft bite and I cry out.

 

“Am I doing this right?” he asks teasingly, and I nearly laugh hysterically as he keeps going, shoving me right to the brink when a second finger joins the first, stretching me as my arousal coats his fingers.

 

But I can only take so much of this before I am consumed with the need to have him inside of me again. I must tell him something along those lines, because he suddenly stops and slides up my body to kiss me.

 

He pushes his pants down his legs and I use my feet to help. I think the garment catches on one of his ankles, but we are too fervent in our desire to bother, leaving the pants to tangle with the sheets. This time, it’s his hands that search my clutch for a condom and mine that roll it on as he places his hands firmly on either side of me.

 

We’ll have other mornings to leisurely explore. To take our time. Right now, though, I guide him to me and brace my feet on the bed to thrust up and take all of him. He curses and cups a hand beneath my neck, tilting my head so he can kiss me as he moves.

 

It doesn’t take long, but that doesn’t make it less enjoyable. I am still yearning for him, a remnant of last night. Or maybe it’s a yearning that will never go away. 

 

Peeta leverages his entire body over me. His mouth slides down my chin with his movements then back over my mouth. Our lips catch and then part, soft words and moans breathed out and then in by the other. I cling to him as my body clenches taut, then releases as the tension bursts inside me.

 

“Oh god, yes! Peeta!” I yell. 

 

He shifts my knees as I flutter around him, resting his forehead on mine and breathing his moans over my face. Peeta’s movements continue as I float back down, soaked and boneless with joy. I hold onto his neck to keep him close. He’s losing control, grasping erratically at the sheets and pulling at them with each thrust. My left hand slips from him, landing limp on the sheets near my head, and Peeta seizes it in his. Our fingers twine together, clenching as his thrusts turn frantic and short. Voracious. His mouth hangs open, indigo eyes focused on my gray. 

 

Unexpected tears spring to my eyes as our gazes interlock and something blooms inside me. A tiny seed, kept warm deep in my heart through cold winter storms and years of neglect. Kept hidden by my hands and now nurtured in Peeta’s. It stretches and spreads, bearing fruit and flowers borne of ice and flames, until I am subsumed by it. Not lust or hate or even need, but something infinitely more elemental and untouchable. 

 

Peeta groans wordlessly and falls still, his hips sunk flush with mine. I watch the glow of release spread across his torso, the white ink in his tattoo standing out in relief against the blush, watch his eyes flutter closed as he rides the wave. I can feel him pulsing against my walls, a sort of intimacy I’ve never known before. And I know that I was right last night. There will be no going back from this.

 

“I love you, Peeta.” 

 

The whispered words slip free of my lips and hang thick in the air as his eyes fly back open to stare at me. And I realize as I fall deeper into his blue eyes, that I mean them. He searches my gaze and licks his parched lips. I watch his throat bob as he swallows, and I reach up to trace his lips, swollen and lush from kissing me.

 

“For real?” he whispers against my fingertips, the words a soft kiss.

 

“Real,” I whisper back, only capable of the one word. His face bursts with the light of his smile and he lifts our joined hands, the arm left supporting his weight shaking as he kisses my fingers.

 

“I love you, Katniss,” he murmurs. We say nothing after that. No strings or caveats or debts. Just the expression of a feeling and a promise.

 

************************

 

Together, we shower and prepare breakfast. Well, Peeta prepares breakfast. I remain huddled in one of the blankets from his bed, warding off chills since my legs are bare. I share more details about my interview, and Peeta explains a little more to me about how communications work when he’s out at sea. How closely they monitor phone calls and how e-mail is restricted primarily to official business and emergencies, all in the name of maintaining security. Which explains why it was difficult for him to keep in touch with people at home, and nearly impossible to keep up with Lavinia and Arturo while they were on a different ship, supporting a different mission, and in another part of the world. It makes sense now, all his talk of loneliness and isolation, a product of both the communications and the rank structures. But like Delly said at the funeral, I’m just glad he has friends who understand him the way the pair I met last night seem to.

 

And even though the thought of saying goodbye to him and barely hearing from him for months at a time makes my insides churn with an unpleasant mix of emotions, I resolve that I can deal with it. As long as he comes home to me, I’ll be here waiting. It won’t be easy, but neither is it impossible. Just look at Annie and Finnick. They manage. And no one could deny their love for each other.

 

“Did you really plan on going back to Twelve this summer?” I ask as I snare a slice of pear from his cutting board, grinning at his disgruntled look before taking a bite of the juicy fruit.

 

“Yeah, I mean. It’s partly my fault my brothers and I barely know each other. And I don’t know, I never really hated Twelve, just disliked certain parts of it.”

 

Like living with his mother. Or my past.

 

But he’s right, there are parts of it that I love, too. The woods where I played as a child. The silver waters of the lake. The bloom of the flowers in the spring after the snow melts. Like he painted in his mural. I chew and swallow my last bite of pear.

 

“Can I go with you when you do?” I ask tentatively. I’m not sure how this works, being together.

 

“Stop stealing my pears and I’ll think about it,” he teases, but the happiness in his eyes tells me that I am welcome. I snag another slice and take a bite with a moan of relish.

 

His exasperated smile and the kiss he steals in retribution for his plundered pear, our laughter and conversation, the ease I feel perched in nothing but his shirt and a blanket on the kitchen counter while he moves around the room in sweat pants and his tattoo -- all of it is a future worth fighting for, worth taking a few risks to gain. The thought makes me blush head to toe and miss Peeta’s request. He has to repeat it.

 

“I need that drawer underneath you. That’s where the forks and spoons are,” he murmurs. 

 

I could say so many flirtatious things to him right now. Instead, I let the blanket slide to the floor and watch him as I slowly open my legs. His eyes dip down at my movements and he sucks in a sharp breath. But his hand cups me beneath my thigh and lifts my right leg, just enough to slide the drawer open and retrieve the utensils he needs. His fingers are warm on my skin and an echoing warmth gathers in my cheeks, spreading down my neck to my middle. Further still as he lays the forks on the counter next to me and shuts the drawer before setting my leg back down. 

 

He steps closer and I tilt my head to accept his kiss. He smiles and nips at my lower lip. I shiver and wonder when Peeta Mellark got so good at seduction. I’m seriously thinking about angles and how to manage this with our respective heights when he surprises me, lowers himself to his knees. His tongue traces over the lace of my panties and my head falls back on a sigh of delight. This works, too, I think as he plants soft kisses up and down both my thighs, his hands holding me open for him. I grip the edges of the counter as he moves my panties aside. 

 

“Breakfast will get cold,” I warn as he nuzzles his nose along the seam of my thighs.

 

“I’m having breakfast right now,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin, sending my pulse tripping at a breakneck pace. “In fact, I think this is my favorite meal ever. I plan on having your pussy for breakfast every day for the next ten…” he kisses my folds and my hips buck at the contact. “Twenty…” his tongue traces up the seam of my lips and my body shudders in need for more. “Thirty years…” he sucks gently on my folds. “Fifty. If you’ll allow it.”

 

His tongue delves into me and I ache with the effort of holding myself together. He tastes and plunges, making sugared mush of my brain. I chase after the fluttering low in my belly, spurred onwards with each moan and lick he gifts me with. His name falls from my lips in quiet pants and then in a strangled cry as I shudder and take flight, held aloft for a moment with the heat of his mouth still on me.

 

As he stands upright once more, Peeta grins at me. I reach for him and hold him to me, his hands resting on my hips and his thumbs rubbing up and down my sides as I kiss myself off of his lips and tongue. And this...this too is something I want. I'll tell him one day, I can't tell him yet with so much uncertainty still in our lives, but I plan on allowing him his favorite breakfast for the next fifty years.

 

As I suspected, though, our actual breakfast has turned cold. I help warm it up, clutching the blankets around my waist, and then we eat. Peeta has the day off to recover from last night’s revels, and I can’t think of a better way to spend it than in bed with him. But as we eat, I know that I am still leaps away from having all of this for real. It’s past time for me to take my life back.

 

After we clean up the kitchen, we return to the bedroom and I sit on the bed, asking him to sit next to me.

 

“There’s something I want to do today,” I say. He nods and takes my hand in his, watching me closely, eyes serious. “My apartment...I got it without a realty agent because my boss, Plutarch, has several friends in the realty business. He has his fingers in almost every aspect of my life, and there is a chance that he knows about you.”

 

Peeta nods solemnly. “Contacts in the navy?”

 

“Probably,” I admit. “Although I have no way of knowing how powerful they are, I’m guessing they’re not as strong as I once thought.”

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“Finnick,” I say and Peeta’s eyes widen in surprise. I quickly tell Peeta about my conversations with Finnick last night. About Johanna’s phone call and Cinna’s dress. My story scattered as there are still pieces that I’m trying to put together myself.

 

“There’s still a good chance he could hurt you, though,” I murmur. “I can’t let that happen.”

 

Peeta squeezes my hand and ducks down so that his eyes meet my downcast gaze. “Hey, it’ll be okay. We’ll have each other, and even if he’s as well connected as you fear, we’ve got allies to help us, too. I know that means we have to trust people, but if Finnick can do it, so can you.”

 

“He could ruin you,” I whisper. 

 

“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” he says optimistically. “Besides, I have no aspirations towards becoming an admiral or anything like that. He would hurt me far more by hurting you.”

 

I don’t know how the navy works. If Plutarch could have Peeta dismissed in disgrace, or see to it that he spends the rest of his life at sea, away from me, or worse. He’s right that Finnick and Annie have managed it, but Annie would have more power than Peeta. And that’s when it hits me, what he means by saying we have allies. Peeta smiles as I lift my head with dawning hope. Because Finnick’s undeniably gorgeous, was probably very skilled, based on what I saw last night. I’d guess he was one of Plutarch’s stars. And if  _ they’ve _ been able to thwart Plutarch this long, then surely Peeta and I can find a way. Even if it means asking for a little help.

 

“So what do we now?” he asks.

 

“I want to empty my bank account, so he can’t control me with money, and I’d like to move out of my apartment soon, but I don’t have a place to stay yet.”

 

“You can stay here, with me,” he says immediately. “If you want to.”

 

We stare at each other as my mind plays on repeat the sound of him whispering that he loves me. The feel of the words against my fingertips and the joy in his eyes as he said them. And I know that it is okay. I’m not taking advantage of him or growing some imagined debt to him. I am accepting. Accepting and embracing the truth that this is what he and I do. We protect each other. Sometimes we’ve been terrible at it, but we’re getting better. I nod, a slow smile taking over my lips as he returns the expression.

 

He stands abruptly and walks over to his duffle bag, still in use as a makeshift dresser. Picking it up, he upends it and shakes, dumping the contents unceremoniously on the floor. With a quick jerk, he tugs the strap over his shoulder and glances up at me.

 

“Well? Are we waiting for something?”

 

I stand and snatch up my dress from last night, pulling it on under Peeta’s borrowed shirt. Shoes, coats, and we’re out the door. 

 

We are a strange pair waiting in line at the bank, Peeta in jeans and a fleece, an empty duffle on his shoulder. Me in my ball gown and heels with a cotton shirt over the top and Peeta’s jacket covering the entire ensemble.

 

When I inform the teller of what I want to do, she pulls up my account information and makes a strange clucking noise.

 

“I’m sorry, miss. Your account has an alert on it. You can only withdraw twenty percent of the holdings.”

 

“An alert? What for?” I ask angrily. Plutarch did this, I know he did. Somehow he rigged my account to keep me from getting all of my earnings at once. Just another way to prevent me leaving and starting over. There’s a ringing in my ear and I teeter on the edge of desperation.

 

“I’m sorry, Miss,” she says again. “The co-owner of the account will be informed that you are making a withdrawal if you attempt more than twenty percent. Technically, I should tell them about this conversation.”

 

“There’s no need to do that, ma’am,” Peeta says genially, smiling at her. “We’d hate to make more work for you. We’ll just take the twenty percent, if that’s alright.”

 

“Peeta,” I protest. After all I went through, I can’t fathom giving up the meager consolation of financial security. I earned that money. I hated every second of it, but it’s the only reason I kept going.

 

“You should take what you can,” he says. “We can come back for more of it tomorrow, right?” 

 

At this, he looks to the teller for confirmation. She nods, hands frozen over her keyboard. “If you come back tomorrow, you can remove another twenty percent. Return daily and slowly deplete your account that way.”

 

Just like I had originally planned.

 

“It may take time, but it’ll be worth it,” Peeta whispers, his fingers lacing with mine on the counter, thumb rubbing back and forth. Back and forth.

 

_ Find a way _ . I don’t like it, but it is my best option.

 

We leave the bank with significantly less money than I had planned on. Peeta takes my hand as we walk the few blocks to the nearest bus stop. Within minutes, we’re in my apartment. Setting foot in the space sparks something inside me. A wave of anger that I channel. I carefully remove Cinna’s dress and hang it up. I yank on warm socks and jeans, a cotton bra and tank top, and then Peeta’s shirt. I pull my hair back in a messy bun and tug on my hiking boots. When I’m done, I feel like myself again. I catch Peeta watching me with a soft smile.

 

“Where do we start?” he asks. I pull out the suitcase from Gale and toss it on the floor by the bookshelf.

 

“Pack my books in that?” He nods and kneels in front of my book shelf, pulling off stacks at a time and setting them in the suitcase. I go into the closet and start grabbing clothes. My jeans and soft shirts, a few pairs of nice slacks and such that could pass for professional wear. Pajamas, socks, underwear. I throw them all out onto my bed in a heap.

 

“You need the blankets in this trunk?” Peeta asks. I return to my room, peering in at the cashmere blankets. I grab my favorite, a faded forest green one, and clutch it to my chest. He smiles and dumps the rest onto my floor before carefully taking the blanket from me and placing it in the bottom of the trunk. Then he starts folding and adding the pile of clothes. I grab his duffel and stuff it with my more sensible shoes plus a few pairs of ballet flats, my shoes from last night, and one pair of plain black heels. My coats, gloves, hats. Next comes the bathroom. I grab as many toiletries as I can and fill one of my larger purses with them. Then I add what’s left of my jewelry and valuables to the top of the trunk. The last item placed lovingly in the trunk is a photo album of my family that I’ve kept through the years, dragging it’s dust coated cover from district to district. I swipe the dust off of it with my hand before I set it in the trunk.

 

“I think that’s as much as we can manage and be somewhat inconspicuous,” I say as Peeta latches the trunk shut. 

 

We startle when my phone vibrates on the nightstand. Both of us freeze as it vibrates a second time. It doesn’t vibrate again, and so I pick it up. I stare at the screen so long that Peeta stands beside me, looking down at the three most hated words I know.

 

NEW JOB OFFER

 

I look up at Peeta as so many of my hopes slip through my fingers. Plutarch and fate are forcing my hand. Increasing the risks every second.

 

“It’s for next week. After my deadline,” I tell him. “If I turn it down, Plutarch will know. If I accept and then don’t show...it’s personal. There’s no way he won’t come looking for me.”

 

“How long before you have to turn it down?” he asks. “Could you just not respond?”

 

I look around at my apartment. At my one-time home. The weight of this choice threatens to crush me. My hard earned savings are trapped in my account. To keep all of it, I have to take this job. And that means hurting Peeta. And myself. How much more can I hurt him before he walks away from me forever? I feel sixteen and alone all over. Upside down in a car and trapped, watching everything I love die. I should’ve died that night with my father. Then none of this would’ve happened and Peeta would be free to love someone as decent and pure as he is. It would be better for everyone if I’d died that night.

 

“Peeta?” He hums in response to his name as a question. “What do you know about faking a death?”

 

“What?” He stares at me like I’ve grown another head, and then his eyes widen in understanding. It’s risky and will have other unpleasant consequences, but it’s so crazy and wild that it just might work, if we put on a convincing enough show. “You’ll have to give up most of your money. Most of your things here.”

 

Back to where I was when I left Twelve. Poor, struggling, alone.

 

Except I’m not alone this time. I feel him beside me. Peeta wraps his arms around me and I hide my face in the crook of his arm. I wanted to leave stronger than this. But I guess it doesn’t matter how strong I got or how much of my account I was able to remove. There was always going to be this fear. Although it may lessen over time, it will probably never go away. Finnick still carries his puzzle cube, to keep his hands busy and the fear at bay. 

 

Or maybe he brought it with him last night in case he did run into me. I don’t know. But I do know that I can’t stay here. I can’t go back. And if I don’t go now, I may never find my way out again.

 

“Follow me. I have an idea,” I tell Peeta. We leave my things and return downstairs to the lobby. I don’t know if Plutarch has control over him, but I have to start somewhere, and the elderly man on the eighth floor who passed away six months ago has given me a possible course. I can’t pull this off on my own, though. “Thom, do you happen to have access to copies of our leases?”

 

“I do,” he says. “For maintenance purposes. Do you need to see yours?”

 

We skim through it on Thom’s desk, Peeta finally pointing out the section for procedures in the case of the death of a tenant. As I read, my hopes lift higher. Johanna is listed as an emergency contact and the beneficiary of any property upon my death.

 

“Thom, how quickly can you put together an estate sale?” I ask. Now  _ he’s _ staring at me as though I’m from another planet, but it only takes a few sentences of explanation before he’s on board.

 

“I can hold it tomorrow,” he says. “And claim that you left behind enough damages to the apartment so that the sale only covered the expense of repairs. Then one of you can pick up the proceeds instead. There’s just one problem.”

 

“What’s that?” I ask.

 

“I can’t start an estate sale without proof that you’ve died, Miss Everdeen.” My hopes begin to crash and crumble. I don’t know how to do that, but when I look up at Peeta, he doesn’t seem perturbed at all.

 

“We need someone who works for the police,” he says and Thom agrees that would work. When Peeta smiles tentatively at me, I realize what he’s suggesting and shake my head.

 

“He wouldn’t do that for me. He’s the police commissioner’s son. Which means Plutarch is friends with his father. He has no reason to put his career or potentially more on the line for me,” I insist, but Peeta’s smile doesn’t fade.

 

“His connection to Plutarch through his father might be what we need to sell this act. And maybe he won’t do it for you, but he might do it for me. Right now, that’ll be enough,” he reassures me. I bite my lip and slowly nod, giving him my permission to try. Peeta steps aside to call Darius while Thom and I hammer out a few details. I’ll be leaving behind a bit of a mess and placing my future in the hands of people I will have to trust. The idea terrifies me, but if this works, then I will finally be free.

 

“He says he can be here in a few hours with a fake death certificate and evidence,” Peeta says, and while that level of efficiency scares me a bit, it also relieves me. “We need to be long gone by then.”

 

We return to my apartment to gather my things just in time for my phone to go off again. A sickening reminder that I am not clear of the woods just yet. Once more, I stare at the hated words. A second job offer for next week. Plutarch must’ve put me back on the firm’s calendar as available, with the intent to book my week so full that I couldn’t back out or hide from him.

 

“Leave it unanswered,” Peeta murmurs, his arms wrapping around me, steady and warm. “Leave them all unanswered. A dead person can’t respond.”

 

“How did I die?” I ask.

 

“You never made it back from Twelve,” Peeta whispers. “There’s a few tracks Darius will have to cover for us, but he can blame a lot of it on the poor funding of outlying District police and the reputation they have here in Two for being incompetent. All we really have to do is convince him enough to keep him from digging deeper. Plutarch may suspect, but he probably won’t be able to prove anything. I’m assuming his reach doesn’t extend all the way to Twelve.”

 

“I don’t believe it does,” I murmur. So this is it then. This is how I finally die. Not alone and cold in the snow, watching the life bleed from my father. But with a brighter future than I could've hoped for gleaming in front of me, and Peeta’s arms a steady refuge from the world I’m leaving behind. 

 

Still wrapped in Peeta’s embrace, I lift my phone so I can see the screen over his elbow, open the settings to start deleting. Contacts, message threads, all of it. Peeta reaches out and stops me.

 

“Wait,” he says. He swipes through screens, saving everything to the supplemental memory chip first. Flipping the phone over, he pulls it out and hands it to me. “Your insurance policy. Just in case this doesn’t work. He won’t want any of this going public. It’d damage both him and all of his high placed connections.”

 

Taking the chip, I slip it in my pocket, and then I erase everything left on the phone’s internal memory. I leave the jobs unanswered, because Peeta’s right. Dead people can’t respond. Then I reset the phone to default, just to be sure. I will lose Johanna, probably forever. The magnitude of this hits me as I set the phone back on the nightstand. But I guess that was inevitable once I decided that I was done with this life. She must have known that. And yet, she helped me anyways. Peeta releases me and I take one last look around the room.

 

“There’s nothing else here that I can’t live without,” I tell him, the irony of the statement adding to the gravity of our situation. Then I pick up a heavy bronze statuette from on top of my bookshelf. I glare at my phone and palm the statue.

 

“Let me?” Peeta asks, holding out his hand. Had our roles been reversed, would I have been so willing to overlook that many partners? Would I be able to love him despite the string of clients? I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but I’ll never have to find out. He  _ should _ be the one to destroy it. To cut the last tie. For all his patience and willingness to help. The questions he never asked of me. The kindness and forgiveness. He’s earned it.

 

I hand him the statuette. Peeta raises it over my phone. The first blow shatters the screen with a resounding crunch. The second scatters broken bits of electronics and glass across the nightstand and floor, rendering it irreparable. Useless. Peeta tosses the now dented statuette on the bed and grabs the strap of his duffle, stuffed with my things.

 

“Ready?” he asks.

 

“Ready,” I tell him.

 

We gather my luggage. Peeta carries the duffle over his shoulder, hefts the trunk onto his back. I carry the purse and Cinna’s dress in a garment bag, rolling the suitcase filled with my books beside me. As we leave the building, Thom tips his hat to me and smiles. I will miss him, too, and I am grateful for his help. But I won’t be returning.

 

Peeta hails a cab for us and loads everything into the trunk. On the ride back to his place, we are silent. We hold hands. The windshield wipers of the cab screech a little as they wipe away the falling snow. When we stop at a red light, I watch through the window as a flake dances in the wind. Buffeted and pushed around. Eventually, it lands in a pile of snow on the curb, indistinguishable from the millions of other snowflakes in the heap. Unimportant and camouflaged by sheer numbers. It’s time at the mercy of the winds unknown by the other flakes.

 

The cab lurches forward and I swing my legs over Peeta’s lap. We sit as we did on the train, with my cheek pressed to his chest over his heart beat and his arms around me in a never ending band of protection. And I don’t look back once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I've got one more chapter to complete this story, but as always, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Yell at me, write me ten paragraphs, type "asdhflskjerhtilsernjgkl," tell me it sucks, whatever your response is to the events of this installment, I want to hear them.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to peetabreadgirl for bravely reading the first chapter of this story with only this for guidance: "I have an idea, but it's scaring the shit out of me because it's a bit out of my comfort zone. I can't explain it, you just have to read it first and tell me if I am insane." After which, she basically yelled at me that I had to keep going or else. I didn't wanna know what "else" meant, so here we are. Nine chapters and lots of breakdowns later, you're still somehow editing this beast, and I love you for it, PBJ. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**_THREE YEARS LATER…_ **

 

It’s snowing as I make my way to Twelve Steps to Home...or what was once known as the Home for Wayward Souls. New corporate backing brought a name change and much needed repairs, along with a measure of security from certain entities. We’re even opening branches in Districts Twelve, Six, and Five next year, with plans for Districts Eleven, Nine, and Seven later on. Gale finally put his money and his company’s prestige to good use.

 

I pause on the steps to hold my hand out and smile as a few flakes melt in my palm, others land freezing on my cheeks. For each flake, I name an act of pure kindness that I have seen someone perform. It’s a game I sometimes play, to remind me that even when the world is at it’s worst around us, there is always hope.

 

Which is why I’m here this morning.

 

I walk inside, returning the greetings of several of the younger girls as they hurry out the door for school. Cecilia looks up from her desk, where she’s knitting a hat for one of the girls. There’s a racket of construction on the new wing. We’ll be welcoming boys too, starting next month.

 

“Good morning!” she calls out and waves to me. “They’re already here. Activity room five.”

 

“Thanks, Cecilia,” I say as I walk up to her desk to sign myself in.

 

“Are you coming back for the play tonight?” she asks.

 

“Can’t,” I tell her regretfully. “I already talked to Sarah about it. I’m working double duty today and then Peeta’s supposed to be home this evening.”

 

“Oh, that’s right,” she says with a smile. “At least it was a short absence this time. Tell him we’re all glad he’s back safe and sound.”

 

“Yeah, I will,” I say. “And I’ll stop by to catch up before I leave.”

 

“I’ll be here,” she says with a quirk of her lips.

 

I walk down the hall and slowly enter activity room five, so as to not startle the occupants. They all watch me warily. A girl maybe around eighteen. Two women in their twenties. Another in her mid-forties, a hard set to her mouth. Doubt.

 

I can relate.

 

“Good morning,” I say softly. 

 

After Peeta smashed my phone and I left what had been my life for over half a decade behind, Darius and Thom pulled off a brilliant performance. Peeta returned a week later for the money from the sale of my things, and while it wasn’t nearly as much as I’d left behind in my account, it was enough to keep me from sinking back into abject poverty or feeling like a complete burden on Peeta. Still, I spent months cowering in our apartment, leaving only for my new job as a nanny to Amelia Seeder’s six nieces and nephews. Everywhere I went during that time, I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting retribution to follow me. I refused to even go out with Peeta, petrified that one glimpse of us together would bring hellfire raining down on his head, too.

 

Eventually, on the first true day of spring, when the air was crisp and fresh, and new life breathed a sigh of awakening all over the earth, Peeta dragged me into a cab and out to Four, to a beautiful two story clapboard home along one of the rocky beaches. Visiting with Finnick and Annie and their son turned out to be exactly what I needed. After that, I suggested that Peeta and I try lunch at one of the food trucks around town. Little by little, I came back to life. The longer I was out of Plutarch’s grasp, the easier it got.

 

When I worked up the courage to return to the Home for Wayward Souls, they were in the process of working out a contract with Gale’s company. Cressida, a lively and creative young woman he’d recently hired to handle the company’s public image and charitable works introduced herself to me, and the only reason I didn’t run is because it became clear within the first ten minutes of talking to her that Gale would not be personally overseeing any of the work.

 

Shortly after, I started working with Cecilia to organize and launch the adult help program we once talked about. My first customer stunned even me, although I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised. Sarah Repasky, previously known as Glimmer, who was thrilled to find out that I hadn’t died of a drug overdose and had my body robbed and dumped in an abandoned mine shaft -- which was the story Darius concocted to explain my used train ticket and the withdrawal from my accounts here in Two. 

 

Within a few short months, we managed to get her set up with an acting job. A real one, on stage in District One’s Beauregard Theater. Turns out, Cole the nurse is related to District One’s Attorney General. Both of them were open about Glimmer’s past from the start, although names were never mentioned, which tied Plutarch’s hands in the matter. If he went after her, she could expose him.

 

Between learning her story and Finnick’s, I discovered that I held a kind of power over my life I’d never considered before. Like Johanna said, the business doesn’t work if we think we can all find a way out, because once we are, it becomes painfully obvious that the people who held power over us fear one thing more than anything else. A big mouth with names, dates, and proof of illegal activity. 

 

In Plutarch’s case, his entertainment contracts extend into the country’s broadcasting systems. Owning a company of prostitutes, no matter how expensive or classy, would cause a huge scandal for him and jeopardize those contracts. He’s operated this long with the thin veneer of politesse protecting him. We all knew it but never talked about it. One decent, well sourced exposé would bring his world crumbling down and, like Peeta suggested, take down half the government with him in the resulting scandal. In short, if he burned one of us, he’d burn right alongside us.

 

That’s not to say it’s been smooth sailing since I realized this. There are still nights I wake screaming from nightmares. Or days when I stumble across a familiar face. A man, or sometimes a woman, who squints at me, that expression of vague familiarity causing my stomach to bottom out and my shoulders to shrink. Most of the time, they’re not able to recognize me before I’ve managed to leave their presence. The few times they have, I usually read embarrassment on their faces. Because no one wants to admit they had to pay for it, whether it be sex or companionship. I am their dirty little secret.

 

But through it all, Peeta’s arms, and his lips, are always there to comfort me from nightmare and memory alike. 

 

I set my satchel and coat on the desk up front and slide into one of the desks set in a circle. I can’t get all of them out. Sometimes it feels like I’m shoveling snow in a blizzard. But I do everything I can to help the ones who come to me. Sometimes they work for Plutarch, sometimes for Crane, more often they work for two bit pimps around the city. All of them are scared and tired. So I fold my hands on the scrubbed pine surface and start the best way I know how.

 

“My name is Katniss. I’m twenty-six years old. My home is District Twelve. I was a prostitute and then a paid escort for close to seven years of my life, starting when I was sixteen. I did it to survive, but I found a way out. It wasn’t easy or pretty. Now, I’m doing so much more than just surviving. And together, we’re going to find a way out for you.”

 

************************

 

“We ran over; I’ve got to go get the kids at school,” I apologize to Cecilia as I return to her desk. “One of them had some great ideas on dealing with the finance issues. Remind me to tell you about it later.”

 

After I left, Sarah had an even more difficult time getting her money out of her accounts at first. She ended up lying to Plutarch and sobbing on his shoulder about a shopping addiction. He bought the story and never bothered to check her credit lines, relinquishing more of her money to keep imaginary debt collectors at bay. Sarah maintains that he panicked at the sight of a crying woman, especially one as scarred as she. I think she was smarter about it than me and never let on that she was considering leaving, so he had no reason to doubt her. Either way, it meant that every girl I’ve helped since her has faced greater obstacles where money was concerned. And let’s face it, financial security is a large part of what keeps so many of us in the job.

 

Sarah still drops by often to help the girls here at the home organize plays and musicals. We’ve kept in touch. But her path was far easier than it will likely be for the women I met with today.

 

“Before you go, someone dropped this off for you. Girl with fuschia hair and earrings shaped like mice,” Cecilia says as she hands me a fat envelope. I look at it warily as I try to place the description.

 

“Mole on her left cheek? Curvy and kind of giggly?” I ask.

 

“That’s her,” Cecilia confirms, and I open the envelope with trepidation. Octavia delivered this.

 

I pull out two sheets of paper and leave the bulging smaller envelope that gives the outer one it’s hefty weight. The top piece of paper is a magazine clipping, from the society pages of  _ Panem Today _ , a monthly publication. It’s a picture of couples dancing. Many of them in navy uniforms. My eyes widen as I spot the date at the top. I scan the faces and find Peeta and I in the crowd, Cinna’s raincloud dress flowing behind me, my head tilted back. We're smiling at each other, lost in our own world.My parents used to gaze at one another like that. And I now know what Finnick meant that night. Anyone looking could’ve seen it.

 

My heart pounds and my hands shake as I flip to the second piece of paper, a handwritten note, wondering if my past has finally caught up to me.

 

_ Cinderella, _

 

_ I’ve been holding onto this for three years, you dramatic bitch. I actually thought you were dead until I made it to your place and fucking Handcuffs told me you’d died in District Twelve two days before I’d last talked to you. By the way, I am never forgiving you for what you put me through. Big Boss, however, bought the fake death for weeks. He kept moaning about what a loss it was. You were so young, so beautiful. And I had to pretend I was upset rather than wanting to do the fucking mambo around his office in celebration. Fuck, I hate you. _

 

_ Then this picture wandered across his desk. Although by then, it was really too late to launch a decent search for you, plus, he’d already found your replacement and had pretty much moved on to the next big thing. She’s a fucking moron, I swear. All tits and no brains. Makes you look like a damned genius. I don’t know where he finds these bimbos, but she brings in a shit-ton of money, so he’s happy with her. _

 

_ Have you heard the news? We’re trying to go legal. Big Boss made some crafty deals with the broadcasting companies that paid off big time and now he’s working the strings to erase all those fucking solicitation laws off the books. If it works, we’ll have licenses, unions, legal representation, health care, the works. Any fucker hits us, we can finally toss him in jail. In the meantime, you keep doing what you’re doing. There’s always gonna be a need for that too. _

 

I laugh and swipe at tears of relief and joy. I’ve missed Johanna. Sometimes I wish I could see her again, although I know she’ll never be walking through these doors looking for help. She’s one of the rare ones who enjoys her job beyond the money it provides. Should this legalization idea work, she’ll be the first in line to become a licensed escort. And she has no one else. The girls are her family. I push down a twinge of guilt over abandoning her and keep reading.

 

_ Anyway, he did make a few feeble attempts to get to your Sailor and find you that way. He got a name and a ship assignment, but not much progress beyond that. Whoever Sailor’s friends with in the navy, they’re determined to protect him. Eventually, Boss gave up on that, and while sometimes he gets pissed at how you outsmarted him, I think now he’s more impressed than anything else. You put on a hell of a show. So fuck you and your luck. _

 

What Johanna can’t know is that it’s an entire team of people helping me keep Peeta safe, from Peeta himself, to Finnick and Annie, Chaff, Lieutenant Commander Jackson, several admirals and captains, Darius, and even Patricia Mitchell, the judge and wife of a sailor whom we met the night this picture was taken.

 

_ You did leave me a hell of a mess, though, and I really shouldn’t be giving this to you, bitch. Your doorman and Handcuffs are hellacious actors, by the way. Fucking brilliant. Oh, and thank you for naming me your beneficiary. I’ve enjoyed spending your cash. _

 

_ Just kidding, Kitty! _

 

_ I took the liberty of investing the money from your account and what ho! It made some interest. I know it’s a little late, but I figured it was better to lay low with the cash until Big Boss was over his bruised ego. You’re welcome. _

 

I pause to smile at her brash joke. Then peek in the fat smaller envelope and nearly drop the whole thing. My heart aches for the people who looked out for me, including those I may never be aware of. I add Johanna covering my tracks to my list for the next time I catch snowflakes.

 

_ Tell Finn he’s an asshole and I will tear his junk off and feed it to the sharks if he doesn’t take good care of you. You know what, tell that to Sailor, too, although I doubt he needs that threat, you lucky fucking bitch. Give him a hell of a cruise tonight, yeah? I’m assuming you’ve taken the maiden voyage by now. If not, you disgust me.  _

 

_ All that mushy stuff we never do, _

_ Jo _

 

*************************

 

“Nope, I don’t think so, T-Rex,” I say, snagging Taran’s hood as he tries to run past me. “You can run all you want once we get to the park. But not in the streets.”

 

“I’m going to go down the slide fifty times!” Olive announces as she zips up her coat. Rue helps her with her hat and mittens.

 

“I’ll count,” she offers. She’s grown so much. Just a scared eleven year old, judiciously hiding her curiosity and loyalty to make herself as small of a target as possible when I started to care for her and her siblings, Rue has blossomed into a young woman of fourteen over the past three years. 

 

“All assembled?” I ask as the six Reed children fall into line. Tarran fidgets but stays put when I give him the stink eye. I smile at them and announce with a flourish of my hands, “To the park!”

 

We march two blocks down the street from their school, each of them humming the sounds of a different musical instrument. Our daily parade earns a few smiles from passersby. When we pass through the gates, the children drop their book bags next to a bench and scatter while I wander the perimeter to keep an eye on them all. They’ll get thirty minutes and then I’ll take them home for hot chocolate. Usually, we’d also work on homework, but today was a short school day, the last before their winter break, so they have no immediate homework.

 

The snow is still falling, although it hasn’t started to accumulate just yet. Tarran races around the jungle gym, loudly making dinosaur noises. I watch him a moment before returning my attention to the other kids. Olive is already on slide number twenty, according to Rue’s count. Fern and Sorrel sing Christmas carols while they swing, and Yarrow sits huddled in one of the clubhouses, devouring a book, her glasses slowly slipping to the edge of her nose until she pushes them back up.

 

“Katy? Katy Green?” A soft voice asks. I haven’t used that name in such a long time, it takes a tap on my shoulder to get me to turn. Publicly, I go by Katniss Brookes, my mother’s maiden name. I hated erasing my father’s name, my family’s name, from mine, but I had to, for protection and to sell the fake death story. I nearly choke when I see who it is speaking to me.

 

“Miss Undersee,” I say in surprise.

 

“Yes!” she says and answers one of her son’s questions quickly before turning back to me. “It’s been awhile. I’m happy to see you found a job.”

 

“Oh, yes. I, um, owe you an apology.”

 

“Nonsense,” she waves it off. “Emergencies happen, right? And please call me Madge.”

 

“I guess so,” I say, but I’m not thinking of how I bailed on her last minute with the nanny job.

 

“It turned out better anyways. We had an emergency of our own crop up and rather than going back to work right away, I had to find a place for the boys and me to live.”

 

I blink in the snow and stare dumbly at her, trying to phrase my next words so as to not reveal just how much I already know about her personal life.

 

“That sounds...awful.”

 

“It was pretty bad. My husband, Gale, and I had a lot more to work through than I thought at first. But we’re getting there. He recently sold his place and I’ve allowed him to move back in with us,” she explains.

 

“I’m glad to hear that,” I say, hoping it doesn’t sound as robotic to her as it does to my ears. 

 

“Were you able to rejoin the symphony eventually?” I ask, cutting my eyes back to my kids for a moment to make sure they’re still alright.

 

“I did!” she says with a beautiful smile. “Actually, they give us several tickets per show for family and friends.”

 

She digs through her purse and pulls out two tickets. I’m already shaking my head when she tries to hand them to me.

 

“Here. They’re for the night after tomorrow. No, please, I insist. Honestly, the seats will probably be empty if you don’t take them. Bring a friend of yours or a boyfriend,” she says the last word with an upwards inflection, as though she’s angling to see if I have one, and I hesitate. I would love to go to the symphony with Peeta, and I know he’d enjoy it, too. But the spectre of Gale and the other woman I once was floats over the tickets.

 

“Thank you,” I say anyways, accepting the gift. I can always give them to Finnick and Annie. Peeta and I can babysit Nicky, even. It won’t be so bad. Just as long as the seats are filled. Madge deserves to play to a full house.

 

“Oh my! Orion, get down from there!” she shouts and tosses a farewell over her shoulder to me as she races towards her son, who’s climbed too far up a tree.

 

I tuck the tickets in my bag and check my watch. Give the kids their five minute warning. Today seems to be the day for revisiting the past, so I prepare myself for worse things.

 

************************

 

By the time Amelia makes it home and I make it to my second job at the Panem Metropolitan Art Museum, I am ready for a nap. But really, my day is barely half over. I keep checking the clock as I work. When my shift finally ends, I race from the museum, checking the train schedules on my phone and huffing when I see that they’re running early today. I run to the street and barely make it onto the bus before it leaves. 

 

My compact timeline provides little room for breathing, but when I enter the ground floor of our apartment building, I do breathe easier. So far, no more unexpected surprises, and it looks like at least all of the family I’m expecting is here.

 

“Hey, Katniss! Our train was early, so we’ve already checked into our hotels,” Ryen announces and yanks me into a hug. I return it and then scoop up little Riley, who extends her arms to me, to give her a hug.

 

“Is Uncle Peeta home yet?” she asks.

 

“Not yet, but soon,” I tell her. 

 

We are an awkward group as I lead Ryen, Wheaton, and Bannock with their entire families up the stairs. They’ve all had time to catch up with one another by now, so the focus is on how I’ve been doing. I try to field their questions as best I can.

 

Peeta and I did make that summer trip back to Twelve. We stayed once more at Kalila’s bed and breakfast. Spent our days there swimming in the lake, hiking in the woods. Time with his family, and we planted flowers around the graves of mine. Since then, he and his brothers have been better about staying in touch and visiting one another. It’s a work in progress, and even though Graham and Leavi couldn't make it, the efforts of the other three to be here for Peeta’s homecoming is one more leap towards strengthening their bonds.

 

As soon as I let them into our apartment, everyone gets right to work. The older kids help Violet, Bannock’s wife, decorate a blank banner with the words  _ Welcome Home, Peeta _ in deep blue letters. Then they draw over almost all of the available space in their youthful styles. Ships, dolphins leaping from the waves, a sunset, flowers.

 

In the kitchen, Ryen and Wheaton are hard at work preparing a meal. Bannock hangs streamers and entertains the smaller kids with terrible jokes. A few of them comment on the painting job Peeta and I did on one of the living room walls. I smile at the memory of painting that wall together and float between groups, helping where I can. The scents of the food fills the apartment just as the knocking on the front door begins.

 

“We heard there was a party,” Arturo says as Lavinia hugs me and he wraps his arms around us both before leaning back to lift our feet from the floor.

 

“Did you bring anything to help?” I ask when he sets us back down, and Arturo flips out his empty pockets.

 

“We brought this,” Lavinia says with a laugh, pulling a bottle of bourbon from a grocery sack. I bite the inside of my cheek and direct her to the kitchen as I turn to answer the door again. 

 

Darius smiles and winks at me as I greet his wife, Purnia, the same girl he was engaged to the night I first met him. After the bachelor party, he told her what had happened, which of course, caused a fight, and was the reason Darius ducked out of Peeta’s life for several weeks while he tried to fix things with Purnia. Eventually, they decided they still wanted to get married, they just wanted to do it their way. So they canceled their massive society wedding and eloped. Their parents were not happy. But Darius and Purnia are.

 

The next hour is a flurry of introductions and the tiny apartment is crammed. Some of these people have never met before tonight, but they’re all here for Peeta. I make sure everyone has what they need and grab my coat before racing back out into the cold.

 

When I reach the docks, Finnick is already there. We sit in the port building, close enough to the wide windows so that we’ll see the ship pulling into the harbor, but are protected from the elements.

 

“Should be here any minute,” he tells me and I close my eyes to take a few deep breaths. “You ready for this?”

 

“It’s not my first time, you know,” I say, opening one eye to scowl at him.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Finnick says, and I nod. 

 

This cruise is the second one Peeta’s had to leave on since we found each other again. It’s the first one his family and friends have all gathered to greet him after. But Finnick warned me that depending on how things went out at sea, it could get progressively more difficult for Peeta to adjust back to being home. I pick at my nails while I think about the dress hanging up in our closet. Waiting. And my hopes that it won’t have to wait much longer. This cruise was unexpected and interrupted my plans, but it was necessary. A six month stint to provide humanitarian aid to a country devastated by a tsunami.

 

“Our apartment is packed right now,” I tell Finnick. “He’s got quite the welcome waiting for him.”

 

We fall silent and watch Nicky play with his toy boats on the floor. More of the other spouses, significant others, and family members gather in the space, glancing first out the windows at the empty dock, at the gangways ready to greet the returning ship, before they begin to socialize or find distractions while they wait. 

 

“What about you?” I ask Finnick.

 

“I’m selfish,” he says with a grin. “I like to keep Annie all to myself and Nicky for the first few days. We’ll go see her sisters on Sunday.”

 

He laughs when he sees the scowl on my face. “Jealous?”

 

“A little,” I grumble, thinking longingly of the last cruise. While being separated from Peeta is never easy, at least I didn’t also have to entertain over a dozen people the day he came home from that one. 

 

His brothers hadn’t ventured into the city for that return, their relationships still on tentative terms and each of them with much going on in their lives at the time. Ryen had broken a leg in a snowboarding accident. Graham had just had another kid. Wheaton had taken a job in District Ten for the summer and couldn’t get time off. Leavi and his family were battling a case of the measles and couldn’t travel or leave their sick children. Lavinia and Arturo were getting ready to go back out to sea themselves, and Darius was on an assignment out in District Three.

 

That night, though, Peeta and I barely made it through the door before we started removing clothes and we hardly left our bed for days. Talking quietly, sleeping, holding one another, relearning all the ways to make each other come. We did paint the living room wall during those weeks, though.

 

With a sigh, I remind myself that this is good, too. Peeta deserves to know how many people miss him when he’s gone.

 

I finger the letter in my satchel, the last one I got from Peeta, just two days ago. I’ve been carrying it with me since, and not just for the constant reminder that our long separation was almost at its end. Touching the letter reminds me of something, though.

 

“Hey, I’ve got something to show you,” I tell Finnick and dig the note from Johanna out of my bag.

 

“That’s a good picture. Cinderella?” he asks as he begins reading and I elbow him.

 

“Shut up,” I mutter and he laughs, but keeps reading, nodding and chuckling at certain passages.

 

“Well, she’ll have to get through Annie to get to my junk,” he says proudly and crosses his feet, leaning back against the wall leisurely. I snatch the letter from his hands and snort as I stuff it back in my bag.

 

There’s a shout across the room and then the loud bellow of a ship’s horn outside. The people around us cheer and gather tightly at the windows. Nicky joins them to watch the ship come in, but Finnick and I remain seated. As the Captain and the ExO, Annie and Peeta will be two of the last people off the ship. When Annie was given her first command a year and a half ago, she insisted on having Peeta with her. They make too good of a team to separate, so the navy didn't even blink before granting her request.

 

I pull my book out of my bag and manage to read a few pages as Nicky settles on his father’s lap and begins to weave a story from his imagination. Finnick listens attentively. Soon, the noise of the crowd increases as the ship finishes docking and sailors begin to disembark in small groups. Nicky eventually returns to his toys and the crowd of people gradually thins until we are the last people waiting. A man in coveralls enters the large space and starts sweeping it clean.

 

I finally allow myself to stand and look out of the windows.  _ Artemis  _ barely moves against her moorings, her gray towers drab against the already gray sky. As I watch the deck, four sailors stationed at the top of the nearest gangplank snap to attention and a shrill, four note whistle pierces the air, audible even through the glass.

 

“Finnick,” I say, but he heard it too, already standing and urging Nicky to clean up his toys. They scoop them into Finnick’s bag and we make our way closer to the door. From there, we watch through the window as two officers pause to return the enlisted sailors’ salutes and then make their way down the ramp.

 

_ Peeta. _

 

My heart thuds wildly in my chest as I watch him following behind Annie. In a minute I’ll be able to touch him again, hear his voice and his laughter, see his blue eyes and his smile. My mouth dries out as I try to think of something adequate to say to him, but this happened last time too. I couldn't think of a single thing to say. Not that it matters too much. He’ll probably end up kissing me the way he did last time. 

 

As they duck inside the building, Nicky shouts for his mom and races straight for her. She catches him and lifts him into her embrace, clinging to him and kissing his copper hair. Finnick wraps his arms around them both and they sway as a family. Indivisible.

 

Then Peeta steps around the touching reunion and spots me. Screw nautical etiquette and being a lady. He smiles at me, the same open and loving smile he always gives just to me. As I run towards him, full tilt, his eyes widen in surprise the second before I jump. Peeta catches me with a laugh and I wrap my arms and legs around him. He staggers back but doesn’t lose his grip on me as I kiss him. Probably indecently, but he doesn’t seem to be complaining. Not even when my hands knock his hat off his head in their haste to feel his hair against my fingers once more.

 

Beside us, Finnick chuckles and I finally separate my lips from Peeta’s. He doesn’t put me down, though, and we watch as the small Cresta family leaves, Annie still carrying their son and Finnick’s arm draped around her shoulders.

 

I turn my attention back to Peeta and run a finger over the new gold stripe on his shoulder.

 

“Ready to go home, Lieutenant Mellark?” I ask.

 

“Absolutely,” he answers, stealing one more kiss before setting me on my feet. He retrieves his hat and then we collect his bags and walk outside, my arms wrapped around his middle. I want as much of him as I can get before I have to share him.

 

Once we’re in the cab, we can’t stop touching. Cheeks, ears, his chest, hands, thighs, lips. We try to control ourselves so as to not make the driver uncomfortable, but we barely keep it together until we reach our building. Peeta’s hands, occupied with his luggage, finally give me a chance to collect my thoughts as we hurry upstairs.

 

“God, I’ve missed you,” he murmurs in my ear as I try to unlock our door. I blush furiously as he whispers some of what he wants to do with me once we get inside, and I have to bite my lip to keep from groaning in frustration, because now I really wish his family hadn’t come to visit. And that’s just me being selfish.

 

I fling open the door, grateful that our guests shout their greeting before Peeta has a chance to do anything obviously sensual to me.

 

He blinks and jumps in shock. But when Darius and one of his brothers divests him of his luggage to deposit it in the bedroom, Peeta smiles and turns loving eyes on me for just a moment before he’s swallowed by the welcoming committee. I bite my lip and head into the kitchen to see what needs to be done to get dinner moving.

 

***********************

 

As the night winds down, I fight back impatience. We’ve been stealing glances and brief touches whenever we can, but there are just too many people for me to give him my own welcome home. I have to content myself with what I can get until our guests depart for the night.

 

His family leaves first, needing to get the kids in bed. His friends linger a bit too long for my tastes, but I am not about to deprive Peeta of this. Arturo and Lavinia help with the cleanup, and I can tell from the grins Arturo keeps sending my way that he senses my frustration. As soon as the kitchen is picked up, they beat a hasty retreat, and Darius finally catches on, too. With smiles and promises to get in touch in a few days, Peeta shuts the door on our guests and locks it. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. Or maybe it’s the look he gives me as he stalks back across the living room towards me.

 

“While it was great to see everyone tonight,” he says, blue eyes gleaming with mischief, “we need to set a time limit on these things.”

 

“What’s wrong, Peeta?” I tease, backing slowly towards our bedroom and keeping the distance between us. “Did all the attention go straight to your head?”

 

“No,” he grins as my back hits the hallway wall. “They were keeping me from what I really wanted to do.”

 

His hands flatten on the wall on either side of me, and I place my palms on his chest, watching his mouth, anticipating his kiss as he lowers his head to mine. In all the commotion, he didn’t even get a chance to take off his uniform. I finger the black wool and whine when he diverts his lips to nibble on my ear instead of my lips.

 

“What did you really want to do?” I ask breathlessly.

 

“Make you come so hard your toes go numb,” he admits before sucking the lobe between his teeth. A surge of arousal dampens my panties as my fingers fly over his coat buttons. 

 

“Nothing to stop you now,” I say as I remove his tie and unbutton his shirt too while the coat still hangs open on his frame. I need to feel his skin beneath mine. To know he’s really here and not a dream. Peeta continues to wreak havoc on my senses with nothing but his mouth as a weapon. Lips, tongue, words. His hands remain solidly planted on the wall behind me.

 

He only moves his arms to shrug out of the coat and shirt. Laughs when I shove his white undershirt up and knock his ear in my haste. Before he can return to tormenting me, I tangle my fingers in the chain his dog tags hang on and pull him to my lips. He drags our hips together as we kiss, mouths sloppy and desperate.

 

Confident that his deep moans mean he won’t be ending this kiss anytime soon, I let the dog tags free to fall back against his chest. Remove my slacks and panties, consigning them to the floor. Peeta lifts me and we fall against the wall as my legs embrace him. His hands gripping tightly to hold me steady as my fingers fumble, clumsy with need, to unfasten his pants. We each use one hand to shove them down his hips, leaving them suspended on his thighs.

 

“Peeta, now. I need you now,” I pant against his scalp as he looks down to see what he’s doing. I laugh in relief as I feel his heated tip drag through my folds and then we both moan as he slides himself inside me.

 

“Katniss, wait,” he tries to warn me as I writhe between him and the wall, to speed up the slow rocking of his hips. His fingers dig into my thighs as he tries to throttle us back. But I need him to move faster. I am not in the mood for slow and loving.

 

“Just fuck me already, Peeta!” I yell in exasperation. He blinks and then grins slyly, bending his knees before slamming back into me, sliding us both down and then back up the wall. I groan and demand he do that again as fire streaks through me and I dig my nails into his flame covered shoulder.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he growls and complies. We try to kiss as he thrusts, but the movements are too frantic to keep our lips together. He sucks on my neck instead and I wail as the pressure builds inside me, powerful and beautiful. I caress his hair and neck and brace my thighs on his, feeling the surge of muscle beneath me.

 

“You’re so hot and tight on my cock like this, like a velvet glove” he groans. “Katniss, come for me?”

 

I nod frantically, focusing on the feel of him deep inside me, the slide of his sweat dappled skin beneath my palms. He loses his balance for a second, bending his knees lower than before to catch it, but when he thrusts up into me, I scream as he touches something vital and cascades of pleasure flare out to the tips of my being.

 

“Fuck, _ yes _ ,” he whispers and does it again. I grab hold of his hair and yank his head back so I can see his eyes. Over and over, he drives into me, never looking away once, until I quake and claw and scream myself raw, taking Peeta with me, his shout primal and demanding as he rolls his hips beneath me to draw it out for us both, filling me with his release.

 

His knees give out and he leans heavily into me, the wall holding us upright as he gasps against my neck. I remain still, languidly holding onto him as small shocks tremor through me each time his cock pulses inside me.

 

“Are my shoes still on?” he asks and I smile at his stunned tone. “Fuck, they are.”

 

“Guess I need to try harder to knock your socks off,” I tease and he groans.

 

“I may not be able to handle it,” he says and tries to stand, but we crash back into the wall as his pants slip down around his knees. I squeal and wrap my arms and legs tightly around him.

 

“Okay,” he mutters. “We can figure this out.”

 

He braces me against the wall, suggesting I hold onto him while he releases his grip on me just long enough to tug his pants back up.

 

“Don’t let go,” he murmurs and I can’t help the laugh that bursts from me as he shuffles us into the bathroom, me clinging to Peeta, and him supporting me one handed, his other keeping his pants from falling down around his ankles and sending us crashing to the floor.

 

He let’s them go to set me down in the shower and starts the water as I struggle to remove my shirt and bra. I yell in outrage as cold water sprays me, but Peeta grins and yanks the curtain shut on my curses. I finally get the rest of my clothes off and toss them on the bathroom floor. He gets to clean up that mess since he made it. A few seconds later, he joins me, completely naked now as the water warms up. He swallows my outrage with kisses and I once more find myself clinging to him to keep the room from spinning. When we part, he rests his forehead on mine and sighs.

 

“It keeps getting harder to leave you,” he murmurs.

 

“Is the welcome home not welcoming enough?” I tease lightly, hoping it’ll keep him talking. I don’t know what this pained look in his eyes means. But my words make him grin and palm my ass.

 

“No, I think we’ve got that part down pretty well.”

 

I shove his shoulder and grab the soap, pausing in washing him to trace my finger over the latest addition to his tattoo. An arrow clutched in the bird’s beak, the fletching speckled with miniscule snowflakes, the letter K masterfully disguised in the arrowhead. Once I restarted living my life, I returned to one of the hobbies of my youth, archery, and I even teach it to several of the girls at Twelve Steps. Peeta may as well have had Lavinia tattoo my name on him in fluorescent ink. It makes me smile as I flatten my hand on his chest and look up at him, confused by the sadness I see in his eyes.

 

“I’m thinking about leaving it behind. Staying home. With you. Maybe working in or opening a bakery somewhere.”

 

I don’t know what to say to this, nor to the way he searches my eyes for an answer to a question I don’t understand.

 

“You’ve worked so hard for this,” I murmur, sketching an imaginary anchor on his arm with my nail.

 

“I know, but every time I’ve been gone, all I can think about is getting back home to you.”

 

“I don’t want you giving up your life for me and regretting it later,” I whisper. Peeta nods and picks up the shampoo, delicately lathering up my hair as I relax under his touch.

 

“We don’t have to decide today. Technically, I owe another year and a half on my commitment. Payment for a world-class education,” he says the last with rampant sarcasm and I giggle, lean my head back into the stream of water to rinse out the suds.

 

We’ll figure it out, but right now, we put aside decisions in favor of focusing on each other.

 

************************

 

I wake to blinding sunshine streaming in through the open curtains and petal soft kisses trailing down my side. My lips twitch into a smile as Peeta’s hands follow his lips down my body. I know where he’s headed and have no intention of stopping him.

 

We spent the entire day yesterday showing his family around the city, entertaining the kids, chasing them through the art museum and then ice skating. By the end of the day, we were too exhausted to do anything other than fall into bed. We tried, even managed to get as far as complete nudity before sleep overtook us both. Today, he’s all mine while his family separates into small groups time to enjoy the city to themselves and give us some time alone, too. I intend to make the most of the day. Starting with letting Peeta do exactly as he pleases. I squirm a little when his teeth graze over the curve of my ass and he chuckles.

 

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his hands sliding beneath my thigh, lifting it to give him access to what he wants. 

 

“Having breakfast?” I tease him and he nips the skin behind my knee in response. 

 

“My favorite,” he says.

 

I clutch my pillow and gasp when his tongue first touches me. Electric pulses slowly waking my body as he tastes me. Drinks my desire and elicits soft cries from my throat as I drift upwards on the sensations. I hazard a glance down and watch him, laying behind me on his side, upside down on the bed with his head between my legs. The sight of him feasting on me keeps me hovering on the brink until he sucks my clit into his mouth and rolls it gently between his teeth. Then I moan in a short burst as I fall over the edge.

 

Slowly, I sink back into the mattress as Peeta kisses his way back up my body, stretching out next to me, aligning our bodies. I wriggle my hips back against his erection and he growls at me, fingers clenching on my thigh before he lifts it again, just enough to join our bodies together. Reaching behind me, I curl my arm around his head, fingering his hair as he rolls his hips, rubbing that one spot with his cock that always drives me wild. My hold on him brings his lips to my neck, my ear, where he kisses and sucks, moans and murmurs soft words that used to frighten me with the strength of his undying love. But not anymore. Now they only feed my need for him. For the caress of his hand over my hair, the warmth of his embrace as his right hand skims over my entire form, the undulation of our bodies and the touch of him deep inside me.

 

We remain like that for sometime, savoring and lingering. But eventually, Peeta groans and shudders with a deep thrust, rolls us just a little to move in me at a new angle. I plead with him for faster and he gives it. My eyes roll back in my head as I groan with relief, the mad fluttering of my walls signaling the spread of my orgasm through my body, and the contentment that follows.

 

Peeta whispers my name, shifting his body so that while I remain on my side, he’s straddling my leg, the other lifted and draped over his thigh and his body on top of mine. He cups my face in one hand as he keeps moving, short deep thrusts that reach further inside me than I thought possible. Hands on faces and tangled in hair, smacking of lips, and frantic, high pitched moans until he finds his own peak with a guttural groan and a clenching of his fingers behind my neck.

 

We lay there, joined and tangled in our sheets. I trail my fingers over his back, enjoying the peace after the storm. He murmurs his love and I return it. Eventually, he moves us to lay comfortably beneath the covers and lifts his head to look at the bedside clock. His brow wrinkles as he reaches out, plucking a few pieces of paper from the table.

 

“What’s this?” he asks and then grins as he opens the letter he sent me. “You’ve kept this by the bed?”

 

Heat flares in my cheeks at his arrogant grin and I snatch the letter back, sending two strips of paper fluttering to the bed. Usually, Peeta’s letters home are full of humorous stories about the onboard antics of the sailors, beautiful passages about the sights he’s seen during their travels, or breathtaking words that detail his love for me and how much he misses me. This last letter, however, contained something new.

 

“This letter is mine now, and I will do with it as I please,” I say haughtily. Unfortunately, Peeta seems to know what purpose the letter, especially the final page, served over the past few days. The final page, which was devoted to some of the most erotic writing I’ve ever read.

 

“Did you touch yourself when you read it?” he asks eagerly and my blush gives me away. “Fuck, you did. Please tell me it made you come. Please tell me you gushed all over your hand and screamed my name.”

 

I glare at him and his grin widens.

 

“If I read it to you, will you touch yourself for me?”

 

“You want to watch that?” I ask in surprise and Peeta groans, burying his face in my shoulder.

 

“God, yes,” he whines. Then his head flies up, face scrunched in confusion, and his hand lifts between us with the two discarded strips of paper that were stuck in the folds of the letter. “What are--”

 

“Um, those are something we need to talk about,” I tell him. I’d completely forgotten about them, and now it may be too late.

 

“Symphony tickets?” he asks as he reads the writing on them.

 

“For tonight.” I tell him briefly about running into Madge at the park. He cuddles me into his arms, examines the tickets with open curiosity.

 

“Did you want to go?” he asks when I’m done explaining.

 

“Kind of,” I admit. “But…”

 

“Gale,” Peeta finishes and I nod. Then I trace over his lips, turned down in an expression that’s not a frown so much as it is holding back his true reaction. I move my finger so I can kiss him, short and sweet.

 

“But if you’re there with me, we can face this together.” It won’t be the first time, nor even the second, that Peeta’s come face to face with one of my past clients. Once, we even saw Plutarch across a restaurant, although he never saw us. But this is different. Most of my previous clients don’t recognize me, having only paid for my services once, maybe twice. There’s little hope that Gale won’t, should we run into him.

 

“Or we could give the tickets to Finnick and Annie,” I suggest. Peeta sets them back on the bedside table with the letter and smiles at me.

 

“It’s not until this evening,” he says. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t go, but in the meantime, how do you want to spend our day?”

 

I can think of a hundred things I’d love to do with him, but really, there’s only one that surpasses all of my other wants. I take his hand in mine and kiss one of his knuckles, hoping that I’m right about Peeta’s desires for us matching my own.

 

************************

 

I’m running late and the snow’s not helping. I lift my skirt and jump over a pile pushed aside by a plow, thankful that I chose to wear my boots and carry my heels in my satchel for later. My visit with Cinna in his boutique took longer than expected, mainly because he’s now a well known designer and had to squeeze me, an unscheduled visit, into his busy day, but he’s the only one I trust with my hair for an occasion like this. I want everything perfect, even if this was thrown together last minute, but now I’m keeping Peeta waiting. I snare a taxi and try not to wrinkle my dress with my fretting as we drive through the city.

 

When we reach the Town Hall, I shove money into the driver’s hand and fling myself from the car. My feet fly up the steps and I halt just inside the door. Annie, beautiful in an emerald green dress, smiles at me and laughs before tugging my short white fur cape from my shoulders and hanging it on a rack already full with coats.

 

“You look radiant,” she murmurs, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. It’s a small audience, just her and Finnick and their son. But I don’t care. Peeta and I were never ones for pomp and ceremony. And I would’ve been happy with just the two of us, except we needed a pair of witnesses. And what would you expect when we chose to do this now, with no notice, rather than wait a day longer?

 

Besides, as Annie hands me a small bouquet of orange flowers, I know that there is no one else I’d rather have here for this. For Finnick and Annie, a day like today was once an impossibility, just as it once was for Peeta and I. They may be the only two people in Panem who understand the magnitude of what is about to happen. 

 

I take just a moment to breathe the fragrance of my bouquet of sunset flowers and then nod. When I open my eyes, Annie holds the door open and my heart bursts with joy when my eyes find Peeta on the other side.

 

***********************

 

“You wore your hiking boots,” Peeta whispers for the hundredth time tonight and I elbow him to get him to stop talking as the curtain falls to the stage, hiding the players from our view. Applause continues to thunder around us.

 

“I had my heels with me,” I insist, but he’s smiling and leans over to kiss me, heedless of those sitting around us to witness our display. He’s still smiling when he pulls away and I can’t help the matching expression on my face.

 

“And where are they now?” he asks pointedly. I pull a face at him, because he knows where they are. And it’s not on my feet. He laughs, then lifts my left hand, clasped in his right during the entire performance, to his lips, blue eyes ardent as he kisses each of my knuckles, lingering on the third one.

 

The crowd has thinned and so he stands, pulling me up beside him. We make our way down the stairs and out to the atrium, hands still joined. I can’t help but sing a few bars of the music we just heard and swish the creamy lace of my skirt, the dress that’s been hanging in my closet for eight months now, ever since the day Peeta brought up the future and possibilities seven months ago. 

 

He’d been so shy and nervous bringing it up. At first, the fears had kicked in and I wanted to avoid talking about it altogether, but once I’d had a chance to calm down and think about it...well I went to Cinna. He’d opened his fashion line a couple years ago to great acclaim, and had exactly what I needed. Layers of demure cream lace that covered all of my skin except for my back. I fell in love with it the instant I put it on. Then Peeta received orders back out to sea, and the dress waited with me, preserving hope in its cream and lace folds until today.

 

We get caught in the crowds waiting to retrieve their coats and I grip Peeta’s hand, freezing in place as my worst fears manifest.

 

“Peeta,” I say in a dull tone. One look at my face and he knows, eyes quickly scanning the crowd in the direction I’m looking until he finds Gale, towering over most of the people around him, hand resting on the small of Madge’s back. Just fifteen feet away from us. I barely have time to hope for the crowd to keep us hidden when they part and Madge spots me.

 

Peeta turns to me and tilts my chin up so all I can see is him. Our eyes meet and it’s all I need. To know that I am not alone. He will not abandon me to this. He never has. My lips curve in a smile and I nod, letting him know that I’ll be okay, so long as he’s here with me. He presses a soft kiss to my lips and steps back as Madge approaches.

 

“Katy, I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, her eyes cutting to Peeta for just a moment. They sweep appreciatively over his form, handsome as ever in his black winter uniform, before returning to me. “Did you enjoy the show?”

 

“Yes, we did,” I manage to say, and then my throat closes up with panic as Gale steps up beside Madge. I can see him calculating the risks and how to handle the situation. His wife and his former paid mistress chatting like old friends in the symphony hall lobby.

 

“Your performance was inspired, Miss Undersee,” Peeta says, looping my arm through his so I can grip his arm for support and he can bow over Madge’s hand. And my fear dissipates, pride swelling to life in its place. I should never have doubted that Peeta would handle this magnificently.

 

“Thank you,” she says warmly. “I’m so sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.”

 

“No, we haven’t,” he says, releasing her hand and laying his on top of mine, creating a bed of warmth and support around my hand on his arm. Empowered, I find my voice.

 

“Madge, this is my husband. Lieutenant Peeta Mellark,” I say, with blatant pride and happiness.

 

“Your husband?” she asks delightedly. “I didn’t know you were married!”

 

“Only as of this afternoon,” Peeta tells her with a joyful smile. Madge embraces us both in turn, effusing congratulations. He transitions easily into a question about performing with the symphony and as Madge talks about her work, her attentions focused on Peeta, I manage a quick look at Gale. His face is stony and tells me little of what he thinks. 

 

“You got married just this afternoon?” he asks quietly, so as to not disturb our spouses as they talk, and I nod slowly. His eyebrows furrow slightly. “Congratulations, Mrs. Mellark, although it seems a bit hasty or contrived if you’re spending your wedding night here.”

 

For a moment, I wish I could forget all that I know about Gale, because in all our time together, I learned to read his voice, expressions, and moods. To know without actually talking to him about it, what he was thinking. And what he’s thinking now is not pleasant.

 

“Thank you,” I whisper. “And actually, it was a long time in the making. We just didn’t want the attention of a large party.”

 

“Ah, so you’ve been together for some time then?”

 

“About three years, but we’ve known each other much longer than that,” I tell him honestly and his eyes narrow. I can see the questions forming, because Gale and I had been together almost three years when I finally ended things with him. He’s wondering if I left him for Peeta. If Peeta knows all about my life as an escort or if we were even seeing one another at the same time I was seeing Gale. The anger and the jealousy those possibilities invoke, even if Gale has no right to those feelings.

 

_ What ifs _ will kill you if you let them, and as I shift my gaze to look at Peeta, still deep in conversation with Madge about some obscure composer whose work Peeta’s apparently always wanted to hear performed live, I smile until my cheeks nearly ache with the joy. I’m still smiling when I turn back to Gale.

 

“It took over three years, but this would’ve happened anyways,” I tell Gale, and his face twitches in a few places, but he nods brusquely and doesn’t say another word. Maybe because he doesn’t want to cause a scene in front of his wife or raise her suspicion when she’s only just allowed him to move back into the same house as her and their children. Or maybe he understands now that he’s not what I need. Whatever the reason, all I can feel is...relief.

 

Someone else requests Madge’s attention and she says a quick farewell to Peeta and I before she sweeps away, solemn spouse in tow. Peeta and I retrieve our coats and bundle up before heading out into the winter night.

 

Taking his hand in mine, I laugh and race down the endless steps leading from the grand symphony hall down to the street, snowflakes fluttering in the cold winter air around us. When I pause to catch my breath, we’re on the edges of the park, under a bower of snow-laden trees. 

 

Peeta steps up in front of me, a smile on his face that says it all. His hands rest on my waist, pulling me close to his body and his warmth. I tilt my head back, letting snowflakes fall on my cheeks for a second before his head shelters me from them, his lips caressing over mine. I drop my skirt in the snow so I can hold onto his arms for support. The brim of his hat shields my eyes from the glare of the streetlights. 

 

Even in the midst of a bustling city, the snow hushes the cacophony until it’s a distant echo. Right now, millions of snowflakes cover the world. Alone, they don’t have much of an impact. One snowflake on the pavement or even the warm earth will melt and vanish. But as they accumulate, they create a sum total effect so much greater than the individual. They may be cold and stark in their crystalline beauty, a symbol of a dormant world, but when the snow melts, flowers will grow in it’s place. And with Peeta’s arms around me, I don’t feel the cold.

 

************************

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for going on this journey with me and this version of Everlark. I know it was rough at times, but hope that the resolution was worth it. Please feel free to leave me thoughts, be they positive or not, I am always looking for constructive criticism to grow as a writer. Do you feel the ending tied up loose ends and concerns you had? Did I make it too neat or do you still get the feeling that life is good but not necessarily perfect for them? Any questions left unanswered?
> 
> My never-ending gratitude to peetabreadgirl for agreeing to beta this story mainly on trust that I'd find a way to get them here to a mostly HEA. I wish I could say that I'm sorry for all the anxiety I gave you, but let's be honest. I'm really not. ;-) Love you, PBJ!!


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